I’m the first to admit that I don’t always see what others see in a particular film.
Frankly, this is a lesser phenomenon that’s followed me all of my life, and I first took note of it in my High School years. My friends and I would go out on Friday Night to the theater to watch something billed as the latest and greatest Comedy, Mystery, Thriller or other. We’d watch, maybe share a few laughs, and then head to the greasy mom-and-pop Italian joint for some cheesy bread and sodas. While gnoshing, we’d swap our opinions of the flick; and I realized over time that they all actually enjoyed a good deal of these pictures that I found, largely, thin and predictable and forgettable. Of course, I never made much of it back then – I simply chalked it up to different strokes for different folks – but in looking back years later I came to accept that what I sought in the movie-going experience was vastly different from what they did.
While I was looking for art, technique, and theme, they were wanting little more than a two-hour distraction.
Now, yes, there’s certainly room for such differing approaches: as I’ve always reminded readers, the job of a critic isn’t to make anyone like something he or she isn’t inclined to enjoy. I didn’t consider myself a reviewer all those years ago – Hell, I’m not even sure I do as much decades later – but I’ve always known my desire to evaluate storytelling beyond just its good and bad pieces. Looking at a story and how its delivered might take a bit of fun out of sitting in the dark; and yet there’s still some nobility in it, however big, however small.
Thankfully, there are occasions when I can drop a good deal of these cerebral filters, set aside my natural tendency to evaluate substance, and see largely what others do in a certain flick … especially something decidedly ‘just a bit outside’ as is 1973’ Psychomania (aka The Death Wheelers). While this is by no means a great motion picture, it has that undercurrent of British charm – maybe even a bit of tongue in cheek – that bubbles to the surface, assuring watchers that it’s entirely okay not to take any of its ‘life after death’ trickery seriously. Directed by Don Sharp from a story by Arnaud d’Usseau and Julian Zimet, it’s the tale of a notorious small-town biker gang whose leaders manages to transcend death and then wants nothing more than to drag his mates as well into the afterlife so they can continue raising Hell as spectral entities. Mind you: none of it makes a lick of sense … but it works, largely because viewers likely end up not caring about such practical mechanics in favor of just watching bad boys (and girls) continue to be bad boys (and girls) after they’ve died and come back.
Who among us wouldn’t want to have such diabolical good luck?
(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and/or characters. If you’re the type of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last few paragraphs for the final assessment. If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
Frankly, this is a lesser phenomenon that’s followed me all of my life, and I first took note of it in my High School years. My friends and I would go out on Friday Night to the theater to watch something billed as the latest and greatest Comedy, Mystery, Thriller or other. We’d watch, maybe share a few laughs, and then head to the greasy mom-and-pop Italian joint for some cheesy bread and sodas. While gnoshing, we’d swap our opinions of the flick; and I realized over time that they all actually enjoyed a good deal of these pictures that I found, largely, thin and predictable and forgettable. Of course, I never made much of it back then – I simply chalked it up to different strokes for different folks – but in looking back years later I came to accept that what I sought in the movie-going experience was vastly different from what they did.
While I was looking for art, technique, and theme, they were wanting little more than a two-hour distraction.
Now, yes, there’s certainly room for such differing approaches: as I’ve always reminded readers, the job of a critic isn’t to make anyone like something he or she isn’t inclined to enjoy. I didn’t consider myself a reviewer all those years ago – Hell, I’m not even sure I do as much decades later – but I’ve always known my desire to evaluate storytelling beyond just its good and bad pieces. Looking at a story and how its delivered might take a bit of fun out of sitting in the dark; and yet there’s still some nobility in it, however big, however small.
Thankfully, there are occasions when I can drop a good deal of these cerebral filters, set aside my natural tendency to evaluate substance, and see largely what others do in a certain flick … especially something decidedly ‘just a bit outside’ as is 1973’ Psychomania (aka The Death Wheelers). While this is by no means a great motion picture, it has that undercurrent of British charm – maybe even a bit of tongue in cheek – that bubbles to the surface, assuring watchers that it’s entirely okay not to take any of its ‘life after death’ trickery seriously. Directed by Don Sharp from a story by Arnaud d’Usseau and Julian Zimet, it’s the tale of a notorious small-town biker gang whose leaders manages to transcend death and then wants nothing more than to drag his mates as well into the afterlife so they can continue raising Hell as spectral entities. Mind you: none of it makes a lick of sense … but it works, largely because viewers likely end up not caring about such practical mechanics in favor of just watching bad boys (and girls) continue to be bad boys (and girls) after they’ve died and come back.
Who among us wouldn’t want to have such diabolical good luck?
(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and/or characters. If you’re the type of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last few paragraphs for the final assessment. If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
An amiable, psychopathic leader of a violent teen motorbike gang is spurred by his mother, a Satan-worshiping spiritual medium, into committing suicide and returning to life as an ‘undead.’”
In the 1950’s, Hollywood studios and others around the world embraced motorcycle culture as ‘a thing.’ Initially, I think it’s safe to say that these stories were more of a celebration of individuals who saw themselves as not so much part of their own society as they were players in a microcosm that still tried to race to their own respective beats, their own respective paces. These rebels with or without a cause really wanted nothing more than to be left alone to ride their bikes in peace – something mankind at large wasn’t going to let them do – and their myths then strongly evolved in the 1960’s to represent authentic outlaws. Gone were the days when these riders were just wanting an unpopulated stretch of open road: now they were Hellbent on bringing down ‘the man’ in whatever form he occupied, and they’d stop at nothing to see their beastly dreams realized.
As often happens when trends wear on, storytellers try to inject new life into them, which is the first thing that comes to mind in digesting Psychomania. It isn’t a throwback to the days when these leather clad misfits were just an eyesore on the landscape of the small town; rather, it’s that and something more, meaning that screenwriters d’Usseau and Zimet simply thought, “What happens if we make them zombies?” Well, naturally, they couldn’t be all authentic slumbering and doddering members of the Biking Dead, so they agreed that coming back from a life-ending experience wouldn’t change them all that much … well, except for making them immortal … and maybe giving them superhuman powers somehow.
???
This is what I meant above when I suggested that Psychomania only works on a level wherein little if anything that transpires makes any narrative sense. These undead motorcyclists don’t behave any differently than they did when they were first brought to life on the screen, meaning that the addition of any other powers – super strength, chiefly – is little more than a magical afterthought. In any other picture that deals with zombies, these reanimated stiffs still suffer the wrath of legitimate science – their flesh decays, their bones break, etc. – but in Don Sharp’s film such mortal shortcomings would be a bridge too far. His dead are, basically, superdead; and all they want to do is have a good time!
An amiable, psychopathic leader of a violent teen motorbike gang is spurred by his mother, a Satan-worshiping spiritual medium, into committing suicide and returning to life as an ‘undead.’”
In the 1950’s, Hollywood studios and others around the world embraced motorcycle culture as ‘a thing.’ Initially, I think it’s safe to say that these stories were more of a celebration of individuals who saw themselves as not so much part of their own society as they were players in a microcosm that still tried to race to their own respective beats, their own respective paces. These rebels with or without a cause really wanted nothing more than to be left alone to ride their bikes in peace – something mankind at large wasn’t going to let them do – and their myths then strongly evolved in the 1960’s to represent authentic outlaws. Gone were the days when these riders were just wanting an unpopulated stretch of open road: now they were Hellbent on bringing down ‘the man’ in whatever form he occupied, and they’d stop at nothing to see their beastly dreams realized.
As often happens when trends wear on, storytellers try to inject new life into them, which is the first thing that comes to mind in digesting Psychomania. It isn’t a throwback to the days when these leather clad misfits were just an eyesore on the landscape of the small town; rather, it’s that and something more, meaning that screenwriters d’Usseau and Zimet simply thought, “What happens if we make them zombies?” Well, naturally, they couldn’t be all authentic slumbering and doddering members of the Biking Dead, so they agreed that coming back from a life-ending experience wouldn’t change them all that much … well, except for making them immortal … and maybe giving them superhuman powers somehow.
???
This is what I meant above when I suggested that Psychomania only works on a level wherein little if anything that transpires makes any narrative sense. These undead motorcyclists don’t behave any differently than they did when they were first brought to life on the screen, meaning that the addition of any other powers – super strength, chiefly – is little more than a magical afterthought. In any other picture that deals with zombies, these reanimated stiffs still suffer the wrath of legitimate science – their flesh decays, their bones break, etc. – but in Don Sharp’s film such mortal shortcomings would be a bridge too far. His dead are, basically, superdead; and all they want to do is have a good time!
The charismatic leader of The Living Dead, Tom Lathom (played by Nicky Henson) looks a bit more like a British tennis player than he does a screen heavy. His daily pursuits is nothing more than to drag his followers into one bout of shenanigans after another, terrorizing the residents of an otherwise peaceful countryside. In fact, there’s absolutely nothing that troubles his spirits whatsoever except getting into the knickers of fellow rider Abby Holman (Mary Larkin) and that nagging sensation in the back of his mind that there’s much, much more to the death of his father than dear mother – Mrs. Latham (Beryl Reid) – will share with him. When he discovers that his spiritualist mum may very well have made a pact with the Devil – or, minimally, their butler Shadwell (George Sanders) who might’ve been the devil incarnate or one of his minions – it’s enough to make a man commit suicide … especially after he learns that all one need do is believe he’s immortal at the time of death in order to return in tip top shape!
See what I mean?
Truly, there’s nothing but a bit of overwrought silliness across every layer of Psychomania’s light – and I do mean light – premise.
As Fate would have it, Lathom’s central motivation to wanting to transcend life itself is tied to little more than the fact that he can do it. Naturally, returning from the other side comes at a premium – he can’t be killed again, and he’s currently inhabited super strength in the process – so this grants the young man the added bonus of ramping up his reign of terror to previously unseen levels. (When you’re never at risk of being harmed, you’re even more empowered in your impetuousness, it would seem.) Because this level of chaos and merriment knows no bounds, he naturally wants the gang to join him in his immortality; and his example serves as the catalyst for the rest to follow suit. Still, there’s tension building in the group when Abby becomes the single hold-out, senselessly clinging to this thing we call life because … well … I guess it still means something to her to go shopping with her mother.
Henson and the cast likely had a good time suiting up and getting into the trenches here. The scenes of motor-fueled merriment do go on a bit long – racing around endlessly through sharp curves, terrorizing men and women walking idly along the street, bashing their bikes into the corner supermarket and running down a baby carriage. It’s the kind of hyped destructive frenzy one might expect from a mid-1970’s Roger Corman feature; and it works entirely only on that level. Of course, the voice of authority shows up again and again in the face of the local police inspector Hesseltine (Robert Hardy), but he’s portrayed as little more than a toothless tiger who hasn’t the wits nor the temperament required to tame these wild animals, even more so after they’ve passed over.
Eventually, Mommy Dearest comes to her senses. Once she realizes that her son Tom has kinda/sorta seized the usage of the Dark Arts for his own personal needs, she can no longer tolerate giving him eternal life. Though the script had never really hammered out perfectly how all of its life extensions worked (there’s a ceremony with a baby and a rare frog along with some magical room in that Latham mansion), the good lady and her butler eventually come to their senses and perform a spiritual switcheroo, one that ultimately turns Tom and his rebel rousers into stone monoliths (think Stonehenge but stockier) while the beguiled Abby watches on in feigned disbelief.
Spielberg, this aint …
“What makes this Folk Horror?” you might ask.
Well, the aforementioned Stonehenge – that prehistoric megalithic structure out on the plains in Wiltshire, England – gets a small-scale duplicate here as the Surrey countryside has its own archaeological oddity known as The Seven Witches. These ancient stones serve as a gathering spot for The Living Dead – they’re shown riding amongst them on several occasions – and at one point in the film Shadwell recounts the story of a coven that previously operated on the land who were eventually ‘turned to stone’ for their disobedience to the black arts. Indeed, once the bikers learn of Tom’s death early in the picture, they opt to inter him themselves in the ground of the magical spot; and it’s reasonable to assume that this spectrally tainted ground may very well have played some part – however small – in his resurrection.
Whatever the case, it’s entirely fitting that when the gang are finally together and the spell is reversed, they, too, become enshrined as stones in the place that meant so much to them.
See what I mean?
Truly, there’s nothing but a bit of overwrought silliness across every layer of Psychomania’s light – and I do mean light – premise.
As Fate would have it, Lathom’s central motivation to wanting to transcend life itself is tied to little more than the fact that he can do it. Naturally, returning from the other side comes at a premium – he can’t be killed again, and he’s currently inhabited super strength in the process – so this grants the young man the added bonus of ramping up his reign of terror to previously unseen levels. (When you’re never at risk of being harmed, you’re even more empowered in your impetuousness, it would seem.) Because this level of chaos and merriment knows no bounds, he naturally wants the gang to join him in his immortality; and his example serves as the catalyst for the rest to follow suit. Still, there’s tension building in the group when Abby becomes the single hold-out, senselessly clinging to this thing we call life because … well … I guess it still means something to her to go shopping with her mother.
Henson and the cast likely had a good time suiting up and getting into the trenches here. The scenes of motor-fueled merriment do go on a bit long – racing around endlessly through sharp curves, terrorizing men and women walking idly along the street, bashing their bikes into the corner supermarket and running down a baby carriage. It’s the kind of hyped destructive frenzy one might expect from a mid-1970’s Roger Corman feature; and it works entirely only on that level. Of course, the voice of authority shows up again and again in the face of the local police inspector Hesseltine (Robert Hardy), but he’s portrayed as little more than a toothless tiger who hasn’t the wits nor the temperament required to tame these wild animals, even more so after they’ve passed over.
Eventually, Mommy Dearest comes to her senses. Once she realizes that her son Tom has kinda/sorta seized the usage of the Dark Arts for his own personal needs, she can no longer tolerate giving him eternal life. Though the script had never really hammered out perfectly how all of its life extensions worked (there’s a ceremony with a baby and a rare frog along with some magical room in that Latham mansion), the good lady and her butler eventually come to their senses and perform a spiritual switcheroo, one that ultimately turns Tom and his rebel rousers into stone monoliths (think Stonehenge but stockier) while the beguiled Abby watches on in feigned disbelief.
Spielberg, this aint …
“What makes this Folk Horror?” you might ask.
Well, the aforementioned Stonehenge – that prehistoric megalithic structure out on the plains in Wiltshire, England – gets a small-scale duplicate here as the Surrey countryside has its own archaeological oddity known as The Seven Witches. These ancient stones serve as a gathering spot for The Living Dead – they’re shown riding amongst them on several occasions – and at one point in the film Shadwell recounts the story of a coven that previously operated on the land who were eventually ‘turned to stone’ for their disobedience to the black arts. Indeed, once the bikers learn of Tom’s death early in the picture, they opt to inter him themselves in the ground of the magical spot; and it’s reasonable to assume that this spectrally tainted ground may very well have played some part – however small – in his resurrection.
Whatever the case, it’s entirely fitting that when the gang are finally together and the spell is reversed, they, too, become enshrined as stones in the place that meant so much to them.
Psychomania (1973) was produced by Benmar Productions. DVD distribution (for this particular release) has been coordinated by the fine folks at Severin Films. As for the technical specifications? While I’m no trained video expert … wow. I found the provided sights and sounds to look pretty damn exceptional in this one: everything looks sharp and crisp, perhaps about as good as was ever intended. Lastly, if you’re looking for special features? In order to be precise, I’m doing the reliable copy-and-paste from the Severin Films’ website:
I’ve watched the interviews and listened to the commentary track. While I found the interviews quite good, Ms. Perez Cuervo’s commentary was a bit light, frankly. There’s a lot of stillness to certain sections – not sure if she forgot she was being recorded, or she simply had nothing to say about so many scenes – leaving me a bit underwhelmed. What she did have to say was insightful; I just wish she had a bit more of it.
Recommended.
Psychomania (1973) might be one of the first Cult films that I’ve had the good fortune to watch, review, and fundamentally agree that, yes, it deserves its Cult status, however modestly. Working entirely off of the mood it creates, the production takes itself entirely too seriously, so much so that one has to wonder whether or not the cast believed anyone in the audience would inevitably take seriously any of its nonsense – from the churlish riders endlessly harassing street walkers to their ‘gee willikers’ embrace of the Dark Arts. At times, actor Henson seems to be an almost caricature of the bad boy toughie – did he suspect this was all a lark? – so its near impossible to take his moments of scene chewing as if he intended such skullduggery or bravado. The end result smacks heartily of the ‘so bad it’s good’ effect in high gear.
In the interests of fairness, I’m pleased to disclose that the fine folks at Severin Films provided me with a complimentary Blu-ray of Psychomania (1973) – as part of their All The Haunts Be Ours: A Compendium Of Folk Horror Vol. 2 – by request for the expressed purpose of completing this review. Their contribution to me in no way, shape, or form influenced my opinion of it.
-- EZ
- Introduction By Film Historian Chris Alexander
- Audio Commentary With Maria J. Pérez Cuervo, Founding Editor Of Hellebore Magazine
- Stone Warnings – Dr. Diane A. Rodgers On Stone Circles And Standing Stones In Film And Television
- Return Of The Living Dead – Interviews With Actors Nicky Henson, Mary Larkin, Denis Gilmore, Roy Holder And Rocky Taylor
- The Sound Of PSYCHOMANIA – Interview With Soundtrack Composer John Cameron
- Riding Free – Interview With "Riding Free" Singer Harvey Andrews
- Theatrical Trailer
I’ve watched the interviews and listened to the commentary track. While I found the interviews quite good, Ms. Perez Cuervo’s commentary was a bit light, frankly. There’s a lot of stillness to certain sections – not sure if she forgot she was being recorded, or she simply had nothing to say about so many scenes – leaving me a bit underwhelmed. What she did have to say was insightful; I just wish she had a bit more of it.
Recommended.
Psychomania (1973) might be one of the first Cult films that I’ve had the good fortune to watch, review, and fundamentally agree that, yes, it deserves its Cult status, however modestly. Working entirely off of the mood it creates, the production takes itself entirely too seriously, so much so that one has to wonder whether or not the cast believed anyone in the audience would inevitably take seriously any of its nonsense – from the churlish riders endlessly harassing street walkers to their ‘gee willikers’ embrace of the Dark Arts. At times, actor Henson seems to be an almost caricature of the bad boy toughie – did he suspect this was all a lark? – so its near impossible to take his moments of scene chewing as if he intended such skullduggery or bravado. The end result smacks heartily of the ‘so bad it’s good’ effect in high gear.
In the interests of fairness, I’m pleased to disclose that the fine folks at Severin Films provided me with a complimentary Blu-ray of Psychomania (1973) – as part of their All The Haunts Be Ours: A Compendium Of Folk Horror Vol. 2 – by request for the expressed purpose of completing this review. Their contribution to me in no way, shape, or form influenced my opinion of it.
-- EZ
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