Prime Evil (1988)
A terrifying force that cannot be resisted is here...
Year of Release: 1988
Genre: Horror
Rated: R
Running Time: 87 minutes (1:27)
Director: Roberta Findlay
Cast:
William Beckwith ... Thomas Seaton
Christine Moore ... Alexandra Parkman
Mavis Harris ... Sister Angela Spencer
Max Jacobs ... George Parkman
Tim Gail ... Bill King
George Krause ... Ben
Ruth Collins ... Cathy Birnham
Amy Brentano ... Brett Schaffer
Jeanne Marie ... Judy Parker
Gary Warner ... Detective Dann Carr
Summary:
A sect of centuries-old devil worshiping monks has surfaced in New York City. Led by the evil Father Thomas Seaton, the renegade group of monks flourish and grow more powerful by the day. It seems they have achieved immortality through a pact with the devil; a pact which requires the bloody sacrifice of blood relations every thirteen years. As the evil grows, the Church itself must take action if it is to stop the demonic deeds of this deranged sect. Led by a brave and determined nun, the Church infiltrates the terrifying group. When the climactic sacrificial ceremony arrives, Good and Evil clash in a chilling supernatural battle of forces.
Review:
Prime Evil, remindin' us that taking a single life to save your own'll earn ya a first-class ticket to Hell, while flooding the planet for funzies gets ya more followers than Mr. Beast.
And speakin' of tyrannical overlords, I dunno about the rest of you, but I'm startin' to feel exploited by the managerial class lately and if things don't change here pretty soon I may hafta do somethin' about it. I don't wanna get too deep into the details, but it's becomin' more'n more apparent that these middle-class loads've lost the ability to empathize with us workin' stiffs and can't seem to grasp the psychological toll of havin' to explain to the clientele that rewinding tapes is not an insidious Socialist plot to destroy the fabric of America everyday.
Slave drivers just keep heapin' on the responsibilities to see how far they can push us before we finally lose it and do somethin' rash, like caulk the crapper's siphon-jet shut. Just, ya know, for example, I mean.
Anyway, Edgar Mastrude got this great promotional idea for the Videodome where we post a film trivia question on Monday mornin' and the first person to submit the correct answer in writing before closin' time on Thursday wins a free rental for Friday night. How a man dishonest enough to rig the church bingo drawing for his mother's birthday couldn't spot the flaw in this plan remains unclear, but I was eventually able to get 'im straightened out with a little constructive criticism.
"Edgar, you're not lettin' Bambi plug your nose while she's got you in that ball gag, are ya?" I asked, tryna remember whether I'd been keepin' Predator in the Action or Science Fiction section.
"I should've known you'd bitch about this. No vision and even less work ethic, that's your problem," he replied before stickin' his head under the soda fountain and takin' a pull off the Sprite nozzle.
"Uh-huh. You're a real pioneer Edgar; the goddamned Neil Armstrong of marketing. And you can stow that 'nobody wants to work' crap for the day you replace the toilet paper roll," I shot back, takin' a sanitary wipe to the Sprite spout.
"I don't care what you think - we're doin' this," he persisted, parkin' his can on the checkout counter stool, causin' it squeal like a chipmunk in a garbage disposal.
"Be my guest. But you might as well cut out the middle man and just give the prize to the first person that walks in with a smartphone and a majority of their fingers," I said, ejecting Man Beast from the display VCR and replacin' it with Shriek of the Mutilated.
I guess it makes sense that a guy who literally hasta pay people to be near 'im for any length of time wouldn't have much understanding about human nature, but once he agreed to bump my pay up by an additional $10 a week I sat down with 'im and went over mosta the ways a guy could cheat at this kinda thing until the two of us worked out a list of rules and preventative measures that, once in place, would keep the contest clean. Nothin' too heavy, just basic stuff like confiscating the cell phones of anyone wanting to participate; positioning the question so that only those inside the store can see it; requiring notarization and a time stamp on all entries; and disallowing the flashing of the counter clerk in exchange for hints. Ya know, the obvious stuff.
What we both failed to anticipate was the competitiveness of man and his desire to be elevated above his peers in victory, and although I'm not tryna pin the blame on Edgar, our little game did inadvertently end the marriage of Chip and Ariel Waldis after Chip relinquished his phone and spent the next six hours tryna remember the license plate ID of the weed van in Up in Smoke (it's "YESCA" for all you dildos who got pissed off after writin' down "MUF DVR," which was the license ID on Cheech's '64 Impala).
Apparently, Ariel went into labor and hadda get a ride to the hospital with the guys who drive the garbage truck, and as you can imagine it was a pretty ugly scene by the time Deputy Dahl was able to get Judge Wrathis to issue a warrant to trace the location of Chip's phone and found 'im pullin' out his few remaining hairs and re-reading, over and over, the description on the back of the Up in Smoke VHS box at the Videodome.
Chip hadda be forcibly removed from the premises, and if you've never seen a man clinging to a door frame screamin' "I know this! Just give me ONE little hint!" while in a half-nelson, I'm here to tell ya - it is not a pretty sight.
From what I hear, Cletus Rubenstein (my personal attorney, and I guess Ariel's too) already had the divorce papers drawn up by the time Chip made it to the maternity ward, and word is that the stated reason was "staggering depths of dipshittery," which, I've gotta admit, is applicable and a lot more colorful than the usual "irreconcilable differences."
Moe Diehm was the only person to correctly answer the question and ended up takin' the gals of The Bikini Carwash Company home for the weekend, but I spoze I oughta apologize to Edgar for underestimatin' the potential draw of such a tired concept, because despite a lifetime of continuous disappointment, I still managed to underestimate man's depravity and the attention it can garner for those seeking to capitalize on it.
Once the resulting gossip finally died down and the place cleared out I decided it was about time I got some work done and continued the day's winter revelry with the seldom-seen/remembered Prime Evil, which, if nothing else, extricated the remaining gawkers.
I don't wanna sound too down on it, but if the devil was lookin' to reap a soul from this flick he'd come up emptier'n the bowels at the Ex-Lax testing grounds. All the same, a supporting cast of actresses whose hire was contingent upon their willingness to pop their tops for a band of Satanists operating out of the Upper West Side of Manhattan is not somethin' you're likely to see anywhere else, so if you'll humor me a moment longer, I'll be offering up a few sacrificial spoilers that just might pique your interest in this bizarre offering.
First, make sure you understand the potential pitfalls of renouncing your faith to infiltrate a devil cult, as sisters who fail their assignment before they're able to reenlist may become The Frying Nun. Second, virgins get to keep their tops on during ritual sacrifices. And third, when a priest ascends to the top of his cathedral, there's usually a diddler on the roof.
The movie begins at the height of the Black Death before vaccine tyranny'd begun runnin' roughshod over a man's personal freedoms, where a sect of mutinous monks've decided to uncork a bottle of sacramental sacrilege and murder all their colleagues who refuse to join them in their conversion to Satanism despite Lucifer's superior healthcare coverage. Next thing, we're in the present circa 1988, and some priest is clutchin' his chest like he's about to join Elizabeth Sanford while staggering to a nearby cathedral to inform the Bishop about a coven of Little Red Riding Hood cultists in the church basement fixin' to sacrifice a choice set of yams to the devil, and to warn 'im to keep an eye out for scheming, treacherous rooks. The priest expires before he's able to disclose the specifics of the sins in question, but a nun with the inside track on devil cults operating out of the Upper West Side (Sister Angela) tells the Bishop that the talisman adorned with the face of a constipated California Raisin carried by the priest when he departed for his employee evaluation bears a striking resemblance to the demon her mother's Tupperware club once conjured and fixed her up with, and volunteers to infiltrate the group to recover the sweater he never returned after they broke up. The Bishop is on top of the ungodly situation at Andy Warhol's Factory and agrees to send Angela on assignment to root out the heretics, only while that's goin' on this doughy, subcontracted chunkhead in the cult's employ (Ben) is bein' sent out to abduct a recovering prostitute (Cathy) while she's makin' the sign of the tectonic ass compactor with 'er boyfriend, and the guy ends up havin' to slit the boyfriend open like the film on a Swanson TV dinner so he can stick 'er with a syringe and put 'er into a soma coma.
Then Cathy's new state-sanctioned pimp at the temp agency (Alex) goes for a ride through Central Park with 'er boyfriend (Bill) and tells 'im about how when she was in grade school her Epsteinian father used to pair 'er up with a boy of roughly the same age and produce a live-action Love Is comic, which, as it turns out, is not the wisest course of action when your dad's part of a devil cult and contractually obligated to offer up a blood relative for sacrifice every 13 years to satisfy his union dues. Coincidentally, 13 years have passed since Alex's dad got his eggs deviled, and George now finds 'imself starin' down an updated terms of service agreement that specifically calls for a female virgin sacrifice and warns that violation of said contract will result in permanent reassignment to linen duty in Mae West's penthouse overlooking the River Styx. Needless to say, a lot's ridin' on Alex not bein' ridden, so George and the head goathead (Father Thomas) hafta coax Alex into movin' into George's mansion where they can make sure the bottom don't drop outta their investment, only about that time Thomas starts makin' bedroom eyes at 'er and promisin' to protect 'er whether she wants it or not until Bill gets P.O.'d and Alex hasta slap 'im around a little bit.
Then Alex takes her alcoholic mother home and two demon ninjas in black pajamas accidentally drown 'er mama while tryna cure 'er hiccups as Ben's out kidnappin' Alex's gymbo workout partner and the Whore of Big Appleon so there'll be somebody around for Pitch to fork in case the sacrificial rite gets boring. By this point Alex is completely smitten and prepared to invite Father Thomas into 'er confessional, 'cept when she goes to meet 'im at his church Bill shows up and starts demandin' to speak to Jesus until Mental Ben hasta jam a Phillips-head screwdriver through his yupperware and toss 'im off the roof of the cathedral for tryna ring his bell. Fortunately, two detectives from the Department of Missing Hookers finally start connectin' the dots after they realize everyone who comes into contact with Alex ends up in an air-conditioned studio apartment inside the Manhattan Morgue and head for Alex's last known whereabouts where the Sinister Minister and his flock are makin' the final preparations for the party they hope will finally break their boss out of the funk he's been in ever since he went down to Georgia and lost a fiddlin' contest to an upstart hayseed. This is probably the last stop on the crazy train so I'd best disembark here, but if you decide to stay aboard, you have my assurance that Chekhov's Nun will come into play before this sucker's over.
Alrighty, well, betcha didn't see that homage to the original Hunchback of Notre Dame comin', did ya? 'Course it shoulda been the chunkheaded Ben that got stabbed with the screwdriver before he pitched Bill off the roof of the cathedral, but what the heck. Prime Evil was the penultimate film in the career of Roberta Findlay, who started directing roughies with her husband back in the mid-'60s before graduating to hardcore porn after the courts decided to legalize it even though it would probably cause the downfall of society. She would go on to make a coupla dozen of these throughout the '70s and '80s, but would occasionally score a non-adult gig directing a sleazy horror flick - the most infamous of those being the 1975 gorefest, Snuff, which was really just a re-edit of an Argentinian biker flick called The Slaughter that she and husband Michael Findlay took, edited out the credits, and attached a ten-minute murder sequence that depicted the star of The Slaughter being murdered by its director. Fortunately for the couple, human naivete knows no bounds, and the abysmal result drew widespread protests that landed it on the British Video Nasties list - with the film's resulting unavailability being the first and only genuine service that particular project yielded for the public at large. Findlay soldiered on with her pornographic sojourn following the death of her husband (who tragically perished in a helicopter crash in 1977) before attempting to transition to legitimate film in 1985 with The Oracle, Tenement, and subsequently, Lurkers, Blood Sisters, Prime Evil, and Banned, which were produced between 1987 - 1990.
One thing I'll say for her - she understood budget limitations and selected time-tested (if arguably played out) plots that could be filmed cheaply and that had been successful in the past. Unfortunately, the Satanic Panic of the 1970s and early 1980s had become old hat by 1988, and even if Prime Evil had received a theatrical release, its poor acting and redundant plot would have left it languishing in obscurity in the shadow of stronger efforts like The Devil's Rain, Race with the Devil, and Rosemary's Baby. Nonetheless, flicks of the devil cult subgenre tend to have a high floor despite the low ceiling this particular entry was up against in light of its budgetary constraints, and although it may never find an audience, its hook is sharp, and it seems likely that Gen-X and Millennial genre fans will continue discovering it as they endeavor to see every title produced during their formative years.
Anyhow, it's time to give the devil his due - so grab your favorite lead pipe and let's see that he gets what's comin' to him.
The plot is a bit unfocused and prioritizes subplots that add little to the story it's trying to tell. Admittedly, the capture and conversion of the supporting cast is played out with the noble goal of enhancing the film's breast count, but from a practical point of view, this really only needed to happen once to bring the police investigation into the fold. Matter of fact, I don't know that you need the police involvement at all given that the equalizer has already been set in motion in the form of the nun who infiltrates the cult with the goal of preventing the upcoming sacrifice, but if it is determined that the story requires two avenues of escape for its distressed damsel, the time spent kidnapping hookers for the orgy sequence during the ritual really should have been excised to beef up the police presence.
Basically, we've got too much plot gettin' in the way of the story, and some of its pretty grim stuff when the protagonist and the nun start openin' up about their respective childhood traumas. I'm not saying those aren't subjects that should necessarily be out of bounds for a movie, but they lose much of their impact after the papier-mache devil makes his grand entrance. Without going into detail, it's also worth mentioning that the climax feels rushed and semi-incomplete, with the hopelessly optimistic ending (where it concerns the chance for a sequel, that is) never revealing how certain characters are able to survive the ordeal while others do not. Of course, it's possible that they had to get that sequence in the can as quickly as possible given that the church they were filming in hadn't been informed that the crew would be filming a black mass on the premises, and if so, alls I got to say is - way to go, Roberta.
The acting ranges from amateur hour to passable, with William Beckwith delivering the only genuinely effective performance as the suave man of the cloth who can make a prostitute's panties drop without reaching for his wallet. I'm not suggesting that he single-handedly keeps the picture afloat, but it's fair to say that, without his presence, the film would find itself utterly up the creek sans paddle. Christine Moore is passable and certainly the most qualified female cast member to take on the lead, Amy Brentano is likable as the chronically horny workout partner, and Gary Warner provides some amusing (if tonally questionable) comic relief as the detective operating in the face of a clue shortage, but Tim Gail, Ruth Collins, and Mavis Harris are brutally awkward in their delivery to the point that you wonder if Harris's role as the nun on a mission was scaled back after it had been decided she wasn't up to it. Fairly bleak stuff here, with the caveat that screenwriter Ed Kelleher manages to slip in some truly sparkling dialogue, including "Now, don't be a complete asshole, and put that down," "Don't believe anything a Norman tells you," and "Cut the crap, fart breath."
Here's who matters and why: William Beckwith (Tromeo and Juliet, Escape from Safehaven), Christine Moore (Lurkers), Mavis Harris (Video Violence 2), Ruth Collins (Death Collector, Doom Asylum, Galactic Gigolo, Psychos in Love), Amy Brentano (Blood Sisters, Robot Holocaust, Breeders 1986), Gary Warner (Godzilla 1998, Lurkers), Scott Rhodes (Vampire Vixens from Venus), T.J. Glenn (second Chance, The Brain Hunter, Satan's Schoolgirls, Dr. Horror's Erotic House of Idiots, The Bog Creatures, Battle for the Lost Planet, Igor and the Lunatics), Roy MacArthur (The Rejuvenator, Escape from Safehaven, Liquid Sky, Lurkers), Miriam Zucker (Alien Space Avenger, The Occultist, Street Trash 1987), Zenon Zeleniuch (Troma's War), Gregory Sullivan (Lurkers, Sleepwalk), James Hogue (The Rejuvenator), Jim Cirile (Rock 'n Roll Nightmare), Jeanette Smith (Lurkers), Florence Galperin (Lurkers), Dawn Carpenter (Graverobbers 1988), Kurt Sinclair (Puppet Master: Axis Rising, Paranormal Adoption, Beast Beneath, Re-Generator, Poker Run, The Wrath, Spirit Hunter: La Llorona, Femalien 1 & 2, The Rejuvenator), Barbara Summerville (Pledge Night), Rafael Guadalupe (The Oracle).
The special effects would probably win the burnt biscuit award if not for the minimal screen time they receive in relation to the abundant supply of unfortunate acting on display. To their credit, the facial appliances worn by the cultists when things go south during the climax aren't too bad, but the demon whose total screentime amounts to roughly four seconds makes the most of them and mercilessly assaults the audience's expectations. The demon would be bad enough to tank the special effects score all on its own, but it's worse than that because there's no reason why it needs to be there in the first place - it is literally a case of "Well, we made this thing, so I guess we have to use it." In reality, they did not have to use it because its presence wasn't at all integral to the plot, but they decided to go ahead with it anyway. Fine. Unfortunately, the bad decisions don't end there, because after deciding to go ahead with their Japanese lantern paper monstrosity, they then proceed to put it on the screen right outta the chute instead of waiting until the climax when they could be reasonably assured that anyone still watching would probably stick it out for the remainder of the flick despite its absurdity. I suppose the counterpoint is that the producers will have immediately hooked the folks who dedicate their time to unearthing the worst films in the history of cinema, but even they would likely find the flick disappointing as, on the whole, it doesn't come anywhere close to reaching the depths to which an aficionado of trash frequently descends.
Additionally, the blood formula is inconsistent and only achieves good color and thickness once it's set into an article of clothing, while otherwise ranging from runny and dark to thick and bright without ever hitting the mark, and the decapitation of the defiant monk in the early going is abominably bad. The only other article that warrants mentioning is the dummy that plummets from the roof of the church, and I dunno if they just stuffed it with styrofoam or whether it was a particularly windy day, but that thing dang near pulls off a spinarooni on its way down (though they did at least edit in a stuntman falling for the last ten feet or so). Dire stuff here from the usually reliable Ed French, whose work (Amityville II, C.H.U.D., The Stuff, Bloodrage, Creepshow 2, etc) improves tremendously when given more than $4 to work with.
The shooting locations are the high point despite the transition from past to present specifying "New England, Present" and cutting to the wonderfully gritty streets of Manhattan, circa 1987. I suppose "New England," or, more specifically, Massachusetts, has that historically inaccurate connection to devil worship and might be considered more appropriate for the subject matter, but nobody was ever going to confuse these locations for New England even before the crew paid a coach driver to film a scene in Central Park. Granted, they keep the camera as low as possible in the carriage and lose some of the skyline as a result (presumably because they didn't have a filming permit), but why they would try to pass it off as anything but Manhattan is ridiculous. Bitching aside, the crew was granted access to film inside the Union Theological Seminary, and this, more than anything else, gives the flick a massive credibility boost as something akin to a bonafide motion picture. The massive stone pillars, spiral staircase, stained-glass window displays, and general majesty (if anything, it kinda feels too big and too grandiose for so small a sect) take a low-budget exploitation film about a devil cult and silence the audience's derisive snickering ever so briefly. Other interiors include a fairly opulent mansion that helps establish the idea that the cult's members have managed to obtain significant wealth as a result of their ill-gotten immortality, an office that fails in its bid to achieve the look of a police station, a reasonable facsimile of a temp service, and a few suitably low rent apartments. All-in-all, pretty good stuff if you disregard the filmmakers pissin' down your leg and tellin' you it's rainin' with regard to the setting - though the varying levels of snow kinda create an air of inconsistency.
The soundtrack is mediocre and unsuccessfully tries to blend instruments associated with church (piano, organ, harpsichord) with the trademark synthesizer compositions of the '80s, and though it's not as bad as it sounds based upon that description, it rarely works. Not to be too harsh, but the degree to which such a simple assignment was utterly butt-fumbled here is astonishing given that all they had to do was toss the synthesizer out the window and just find a classically trained pianist or organist to play the hits, but they took something simple and complicated it. There is a sequence where they chuck the synthesizer and roll with a straight harpsichord (the mansion scene) and it's perfectly effective, but they just couldn't help themselves. Admittedly, there is a single instance (over-the-top as it is) where the blending of piano and synthesizer kinda come together (the conversion sequence with the topless initiates), but otherwise, it's a clash of styles that's more confusing than anything.
Overall, Prime Evil fails in its bid to ride the coattails of devil cults past, but would have been right at home as the subject of ridicule for Gilbert Gottfried or Rhonda Shear on USA Up All Night, as its shoddy production values rarely dip below the standards of late-night cable connoisseurs. It's true that the genre offerings being produced at the end of the '80s were no match for those made at their onset, but their charm persists nonetheless, and you could do a hell of a lot worse than hookers linin' up to give Satan a peek at the groceries. Recommended for '80s horror and devil worship completists - though it's probably unfit for general consumption.
Rating: 47%