Chanoc en el Circo Union (Mexico, 1979)

In my defense, it was not until I began watching Chanoc en el Circo Union that I realized that it was perhaps not the most appropriate film to include in Jungle Adventure Month[TM]. However, its hero was born in the jungle (or, as Fletcher Hanks would phrase it, “jungle born”), and it has a circus setting, so even though the action doesn’t take place in the jungle, we still get jungle movie staples like tiger wrestling and mischievous chimp sidekicks… not to mention the added bonus of midgets with blowguns.

After all, what is the circus movie if not an offshoot of the jungle adventure movie? The only difference between the two, setting aside, is that, in a jungle movie, the tigers are free to attack and chomp on humans as they please, whereas, in a circus movie, they compliantly jump through flaming hoops. God, circus movies suck!

But not Chanoc en el Circo Union, which is a bit surprising to me. It’s director, Rafael Perez Grovas, around the same time as he directed this film, also helmed a couple of particularly wan late Santo films that really did their aging star no favors. Since Circo Union doesn’t show evidence of any previously undisclosed gifts on the filmmaker’s part, I’m going to assume that he here benefited from the combination of a colorful setting and a more youthful and energetic star.

Obviously, the character Chanoc needs no introduction. Psyche! Seriously, though, if you lived in Mexico during the 60s or 70s, that would probably be true. But for the rest of you, Chanoc, at least from his first appearance in print in 1959 until the debut of Kaliman in 1965, was Mexico’s most popular comic book hero. A Tarzan-like figure who was driven from his jungle home, Chanoc somehow came to settle in a Mexican fishing village, where he continued his work as a noble defender of the weak and downtrodden.

Such was Chanoc’s popularity that his adventures became the basis for eight feature films. Chanoc en el Circo Union is the next to last of these, with star Alejandro Fuentes taking over the lead from professional animal wrangler Humberto Gurza, who had starred in the previous three. For some reason, Fuentes didn’t return to the role afterward, which I can only guess was his own choice, as he does a pretty good job here. He’s not only suitably charismatic (if not overwhelmingly expressive), but also an athletic performer, and can be clearly seen to perform many of his own stunts in the film.

While previous Chanoc films would pit their hero against vampires and other supernatural foes, his opponents in Circo Union are comparably more prosaic. Here we see Chanoc offering his services as an animal handler to a circus in order to flush out a gang of black marketers that is using it as a cover. While doing his undercover bit to determine the identity of the gang’s mysterious leader, he also finds time to thrill the crowds with his ability to make formerly wild animals perform humiliating tricks and also to romance a buxom trapeze artist played by top-billed star Diana Torres. Meanwhile, Chanoc’s godfather/sidekick, Tzekub -- who I think can most accurately be described as a “daffy old coot” -- goes about playing detective in his own fashion, which naturally results in him constantly having to be bailed out of trouble by Chanoc.

When I took on Jungle Adventure Month[TM], I knew that one of its major perils was going to be that I would inevitably stumble upon animal stars whom I wish I had included in the recently wrapped-up 4DK Animalympics (SPOILER: the marmoset won). And with Chanoc en el Circo Union we have the first instance of that happening. Now, here I am not talking, as you might expect, about Chanoc’s chimp companion Chuchu Chuchu, although the Chuch-ster indeed has a lot to recommend him: an ability to mug and jeer alongside the best of them, the requisite knack for bopping bad guys over the head with comically large bats, anthropomorphic costumery, etc. No, the exceptional beast that I am talking about in this case has a part in Chanoc en el Circo Union that, though very brief, casts a mighty shadow upon all that surrounds it:

This anipal’s appearance occurs as part of a circus performance in which an elephant is shown stepping over star Diana Torres and letting its giant foot hover just inches over her reclining form. By this means the animal displays its uncanny ability to restrain itself from stomping the life out of a small and annoying human despite the fact that it undoubtedly really wants to.

Immediately following that, a clown leads onto the stage a tiny dog in an elephant costume who replicates the elephant act in miniature with a couple of Barbie dolls.

Fuck. And. Yes.

In the final tally, Chanoc en el Circo Union is a moderately diverting, Saturday matinee style entertainment, much along the lines of the type of adventure films that Hollywood studios churned out as B programmers during the 40s and 50s. I think part of the reason that it passed muster with me is that, as a Mexican action film from the 70s, its lack of a hero wearing a wrestling mask with a sport coat and tie reduced my expectations of awesomeness correspondingly.

And speaking of which, after Circo Union, Chanoc would make one final screen appearance, starring alongside the Son of Santo in Chanoc and the Son of Santo vs The Vampire Assassins (though in that instance, with one-timer Nelson Velazquez in the role). Word is that that film’s pretty dire, but, after Circo Union, I’m nonetheless curious to see Chanoc do his stuff against a more traditional lucha movie style foe, by which I mean a Frankenstein, or a wolfman, or a Dracula.

But, you know what? I’d watch Chanoc fight a man made out of pipe cleaners if I knew that tiny dog in the elephant suit was going to be in the movie.

This review is part of “Stranded in the Jungle”, a month of Jungle Adventure themed posts at 4DK.

Friday's best pop song ever

Ismail Yassin's Tarzan (Egypt, 1958)

Oh, Tarzan. Why do you fascinate the world so? Is there no escaping your influence? Here we are, two reviews into Jungle Adventure month, and I've gone from covering what was just one of India’s seemingly infinite number of cracks at your legacy to Ismail Yassin’s Tarzan, a less than respectful potshot from the number one screen comic of Egyptian cinema’s golden age.

Of course, whether they feature Tarzan or not, one need only watch a few examples of these jungle romps to see the appeal of the thematic template they provide. Whether made by American, Turkish, or Indian hands, they almost invariably serve as a means of exploring, with varying levels of commitment, the bestial nature of man (and -- in the Indian examples, especially -- of woman). This applies especially to those damned city folk, who generally show up in the jungle for the sole purpose of demonstrating, by way of their wanton violence and greed, that they are the least civilized creatures of all. It all goes some way toward showing that, wherever you look in the world, when popular cinema is used as a tool for moral instruction, it is generally as a means for very wealthy professionals to inform poor folks of the virtues of poverty.

In its treatment of this particular theme, Ismail Yassin’s Tarzan proceeds as if written by Egypt’s answer to Rod Serling, so crisply does it dispense its dollop of instructive irony. However, while the basic message is expected, much of what the film otherwise delivers is anything but. In fact, writer Abu El-Soud Al-Ebyari’s screenplay only appropriates the Tarzan mythos as a jumping off point for what turns out to be a much broader and more city-bound social farce. And when that mythos serves no purpose to the narrative at hand, it is unceremoniously pushed to the background without so much as a look backward. It’s hard to even call the film a parody, since that suggests a focus on the traditional Tarzan story that’s clearly outside its agenda. But to the extent that it does focus on that story, it displays an admirable level of irreverence.

The film begins with the family of Mr. Morad (Stephan Rousty) all doing their best to conceal their elation over the death of Morad’s wealthy brother. Soon the lawyer arrives at the house for the reading of the will, which, as is so often the case, turns out to have some unforeseen stipulations. In order for this greedy and clownish lot to obtain their share of the inheritance, they must first track down the decedent’s son, Tiger, who was lost in the jungle some twenty-five years ago, and, upon finding him, marry him off to Murad’s daughter Hassanat (played by comedienne Zenat Sedky, a regular fixture in Yassin’s films).

With this economical little set up out of the way, Murad and his loutish son Andil (Abd El-Salam El-Naboulsy) are off to the jungle, where, after a couple of the requisite perils (mostly in the form of some harmless looking snakes), they are soon face to face with the legendary Tarzan, portrayed by a pot-bellied and preposterously mustached Ismail Yassin. It is quickly established, by way of a tell-tale birthmark, that Tarzan is indeed the lost relative that they are looking for. However, upon the arrival on the scene of Cheetah (played, in this case, by a person in an ape suit even shoddier than the one seen in Jungle Love) it becomes apparent that the family’s grand scheme will be more difficult to execute than expected.

It turns out that this Cheetah is a female Cheetah, and not only is she Tiger/Tarzan’s trusted animal companion, but his fiancé, as well. And, in case you thought that that designation might just be an error in translation, we’re shown Tiger lovingly kissing his monkey mate on the lips as the rest of the cast winces in revulsion. (And if that’s not explicit enough, another character later refers to Tarzan/Tiger being “used to bestiality”.) To top things off, Cheetah is also the jealous type, and has a tendency to go berserk whenever another woman comes within Tiger’s orbit.

Eventually it is discovered that Tiger has a weakness for music, and so one of the many musical numbers in Ismail Yassin’s Tarzan is used to lull him into compliance. Once back at the family home, the rest of the Morad family is held hostage to his animalistic ways, so afraid of losing out on their big payday that they’re forced to look on approvingly as he and Cheetah cheerfully lays waste to all of the expensive tchotchkes adorning their spacious estate. During this section of the film, Yassin’s performance is a dialog-free combination of physical gestures and eruptions of gibberish, and he does a great job of injecting an infectious merriment into Tarzan/Tiger’s role as a bringer chaos and server of just desserts.

So much more monkey than man is Tiger that the lawyer eventually determines that, in order for him to legally meet the conditions of the will, he must first undergo some serious civilizing, which should first and foremost entail the mastery of Arabic. After a few disastrous attempts, this task ultimately falls to Safy, a distant cousin who, despite living in the same household, is treated by the family as a servant. (Safy is played by former child star Fayrouz, here making her debut as an adult actress –- a fact that is somewhat nauseatingly trumpeted in the film’s original trailer by referring to her emerging as “a flower in full bloom” or some such.) Safy shrewdly chooses to teach Tiger via song, which not only makes for a couple of amusing musical numbers, but also within weeks transforms Tiger into a perfect caricature of upper-class sophistication, complete with crisp suit, pocket square, and neatly trimmed pencil mustache.

Of course, this process also results in Tiger and Safy falling in love, which in turn results in the Morad family, now further from the loot than ever, resorting to some surprisingly nasty methods in order to see their scheme through. And if you think that, in the course of confronting those methods, Tiger and Safy come to some foregone conclusions about the relationship between money and happiness, you’re absolutely right. Hey, you must have seen this one before!

Over the past months, I’ve become something of a cheerleader for these classic Egyptian comedies, and for the films of Ismail Yassin in particular. And I have to say it: Ismail Yassin’s Tarzan is another winner. I also have to say, though, that I’m a bit surprised to be saying so. With this film, I was expecting just another lame send-up of all of the typical Tarzan tropes, but underestimated the care that would be taken in crafting the film to fit Yassin’s distinctive comic persona. In his films, Yassin definitely fools around, but is never, at the end of the day, the fool, and rather is usually revealed to be the smartest guy in the room despite appearances. Thus the typical caricature of Tarzan as an oafish simpleton won’t work here. Yassin instead makes of him a force of gleeful anarchy who upsets the balance of hypocrisy in the Morad household and entertains the bejeesus out of us while doing it. Go Tarzan!

This review is part of "Stranded in the Jungle", a month of jungle adventure themed posts at 4DK.

Jungle Love (India, 1990)

I begin Jungle Adventure Month with part of my work already done for me, because Jungle Love is that rare film whose essence can be summed up by the video for a 1990s Europop song:



It's all there: the two dimensional characters, the gaudily artificial sets, the terrible chimpanzee costumes, the catchy yet awful music. And Jungle Love star Rocky's hair is indeed quite nice. Also, as with this Toy-Box video, Jungle Love, if you're in an undiscriminating enough of a mood, can be kind of fun in parts -- though that's not the kind of thing you'd care to admit publicly.

On the other hand, there's a seaminess to Jungle Love that the above video doesn't capture. The film basically represents the point at which the Indian film industry's apparent, helpless compulsion to retell the story of Tarzan over and over again runs up against the sleaze and garishness of 1990s Bollywood. Not that the movie's version of in-your-face eroticism is all that in-your-face in any light other than the one cast by Bollywood tradition. But it's funny how, once you've watched enough Bollywood films, you begin to internalize their chaste -- if somewhat contradictory -- standard of decency, to the point where seeing a visible panty line is the equivalent of watching hardcore pornography, and one can be scandalized by the sight of a pair of Indian actors kissing each other on the lips, which we indeed see in Jungle Love.

As in the Zimbo films, our Tarzan here is presented as a complete dumbass who nonetheless exerts an irresistible sexual pull on any female within shouting distance. However, unlike in the Zimbo films -- which, after all, were made in the late 50s and early 60s -- the filmmakers here can go quite a bit further in showing the erotic mania inspired in those females. Thus is our heroine, while merely daydreaming of our hero's chiseled form, driven to near orgasm by a droplet of dew falling on her exposed belly. And it is in a comparable state of heat, later on, that South Indian item girl Disco Shanti literally crawls all over a dully compliant Tarzan as she coos out a hip thrusting number titled "He-Man".

Interestingly, while Jungle Love's opening credits boast a subtitle proclaiming it "a TARZAN film", and list stars Rocky and Kirti Singh as playing "Tarzan" and "Jane", respectively, in the body of the film itself, the characters that those stars play are called "Raja" and "Rita". Could this be a wilful act of Godardian post-modernism on the filmmakers' parts? An open acknowledgment that the characters that these actors are playing are actually nothing more than genre archetypes? No, you say? Yeah, you're probably right.

Anyway, those credits also list the film's approximation of Cheetah as being played by "An Amazing Chimpanzee". The reality, however, is that said beast is played by an arguably amazing child or little person in a not so amazing chimpanzee suit.

Jungle Love's take on the Tarzan mythos portrays him as the child of an amazonian queendom where female newborns are treasured and male ones cast off on the rapids of a convenient river. Crazy, right? Fortunately, Cheetah rescues baby Tarzan from his baby raft and delivers him to a lioness who raises him as her own. The close bond between mother and adopted son is demonstrated in a couple of bookend scenes in which we see Tarzan, both as an infant and AS AN ADULT, suckling on mama lion's teat. Gross.

As is so often the case, the aforementioned jungle queendom is in possession of a vast treasure which they have no apparent need for, and it is not long before a gang of big city scoundrels lead by Goga Kapoor arrive on the scene with the intention of hunting it down. Unfortunately for innocent Rita, her father holds some kind of key to finding that treasure, and so the two of them are unwillingly dragged along for the ride. I feel pretty certain that y'all can guess the rest.

Jungle Love spends an awful lot of its first half on unattractively filmed dramatic and romantic hijinks, but then grows a conscience during its last hour and dutifully doles out a fairly rewarding stream of Jungle movie action tropes. This kicks off in grand fashion with a catfight between Rita and Disco Shanti (here playing the criminal gang's resident skank) that takes place in a cave right out of Mario Bava's Hercules in the Haunted World. Rita ends up trapped in a giant spiderweb and threatened by a giant muppet spider.

Tarzan arrives on the scene and begins tearing the beast's legs off with alarming ease. In the fracas, Disco Shanti falls into the muppet spider's maw and has her head gorily eaten. Yay!

In short order, Rita is captured by a tribe of cannibals whose lair is entered via a giant fanged mouth.

While Rita distracts the tribe from the meal at hand by engaging them in a rousing, exotica-themed production number, Tarzan rushes to the rescue, only to find himself trapped inside a man-eating plant!

And then, of course, in a bow to hallowed Indian jungle movie tradition, we have Tarzan fighting an immobile stuffed tiger. Mind it!

So, in closing, I really can't recommend Jungle Love enough. Wait, let me reconsider that. What I mean to say is that I can't recommend enough of Jungle Love for you to be bothered with watching the entire thing. However, the film's availability on the handy VCD format is especially convenient in this instance. Because if you simply watch Disc 2 and use the other one as a drink coaster, you'll have something vaguely approximating a moderately satisfying feature film experience.

Wow. Too bad I wasn't around when this movie came out. They could have used that line on the poster.

This review is part of "Stranded in the Jungle", a month of jungle adventure themed posts at 4DK.

Friday's best pop song ever

Stranded in the jungle

“Todd, it’s such a lovely day out today. Are you sure you don’t want to go outside?”

As will surprise exactly no one who reads this blog, that was something that I heard a lot while growing up -- usually as I was planted in front of the TV sullenly watching Spectreman or some such. And the answer then, as it is today, was a resolute “no”.

I am simply not what you might call an “outdoorsy” person. And while my shunning of natural light has today resulted in me having a lovely alabaster complexion, it has also resulted in me having a dramatic shortage of rugged, manly adventures involving pith helmets, crampons, extra complicated Swiss army knives, or short pants of any kind.

Given that, one might assume that, by watching the type of jungle adventure movies that I frequently review here at 4DK, I am vicariously compensating for that lack of experience. But that is not the case. In fact, my antipathy towards dirt, open air, and isolation from modern conveniences extends even to their representations in popular media. (That is not to say, however, that I am “anti” the environment itself. To the contrary, I’m a strong believer that the natural landscape and the wildlife within it should be preserved for those people who, you know, actually enjoy that kind of thing.) No, the genres that I instead tend to gravitate toward are those that typically rely on the type of urban settings that I am accustomed to: your film noirs, your action thrillers, your spy movies, etc.

It was only with a little movie called Zimbo that things started to change for me a bit. I became fascinated by the fact that a genre I think many people would assume was the exclusive territory of Hollywood had provided so much grist for various foreign film industries over the years. The seeming universality of the Tarzan mythos -- as well as the use of jungle films as an outlet for xenophobia and blockheaded statements about the essential savagery of man -- filled me with a thrill of discovery that lead to a bit of a binge on my part.

To cut to my point, I, as a result, ended up with quite a backlog of unwatched jungle adventure films, one that made up a substantial portion of the larger, perpetually looming backlog of unwatched DVDs and VCDs that, from their perch aside my DVD player, taunt me on a daily basis with all their untested potential for titillation, horror, boredom and misery. But, ladies and germs, now May is coming. And all of that is going to change.

For the entire month of May, 4DK will be observing Jungle Adventure month -- or, as I prefer to put it, we’ll be “Stranded in the Jungle”. For those four weeks, every post will be redolent of impenetrable growth, exotic flora and fauna, savage rituals, fetid thickets, tropical climes, and sweaty men in leopard skin loincloths. Oh, and, of course, LOTS of monkey sidekicks.

So put on your hiking boots, and don’t forget the sunscreen. We’re going to get dirty.

Magic Warriors (Taiwan, 1989)

There are certainly things to be said against the Peach Kid films -- especially if you don’t like 80s hair metal coiffure, depictions of people receiving involuntary golden showers, or Chinese synth pop songs sung by small children. But there are also many things to be said for them. My experience of most Taiwanese fantasy martial arts films is that one has to wade through a lot of fairly pedestrian chop-sockey or swordplay action to get to the good bits. And by “good bits”, I of course refer to cheaply realized monsters, crazy and wholly unconvincing wire fu and scenes of people shooting cartoon lighting bolts out of their palms. In the Peach Kid movies, on the other hand, you’re pretty much guaranteed crazy from first frame to last.

That said, there’s some room for argument as to whether 1989’s Magic Warriors can accurately be called a Peach Kid film at all -- despite the fact that it sometimes goes under the title Peach Kid 3. While it features a lead performance by Lin Hsiao Lan, the star of the Peach Kid films, and is co-directed by the director and cinematographer of the Peach Kid films, the role that Lin plays in it -- rather than that of Tao Tai-lang, aka the Peach Kid -- is another, non-peach-themed young hero by the name of Little Flying Dragon. This means that Magic Warriors contains no flying peaches with babies inside or giant peach robots as seen in the previous films. It does, however, contain pretty much everything else seen in the Peach Kid films, which means, yes, plenty of hair metal dos, child screeched synth pop, and numerous ostensibly comical instances of people being peed on.

In Magic Warriors, Little Flying Dragon finds himself (again, as in the Peach Kid films, our hero is a boy, despite being played by a female) in charge of protecting a young child by the name of Golden Boy, who reluctantly plays a key role in the ongoing and quite literal battle between the forces of good and evil. Golden Boy is the product of an unholy union between one of Heaven’s warriors and the daughter of the King of Evil, who is simply referred to in the subtitles as Evil Lady and appears to have appropriated David Bowie’s wig from Labyrinth.

As Golden Boy is in possession of a map detailing the whereabouts of the only weapon capable of killing the King, he is a subject of great interest for many of the denizens of Magic Warriors' freaky fairytale world. These include, among others, a character called Red Haired Weirdo, a guy with a mushroom for a head, another who turns into a snail, and a guy who I think is supposed to be a bag of garbage given human form.

One thing that I find refreshing about Asian action films like Magic Warriors is that their makers tend to lack the overweening sentimentality about children that their Hollywood counterparts have, and so have no qualms about depicting them as being in harm’s way or giving us scenes, like the one in Magic Warriors, in which Golden Boy gets drunk off his ass and trashes a tavern with his magical palm rays. (Yes, I hear you. Showing a fictional child with Vince Neil hair getting blotto is indeed a very terrible thing, and definitely not at all completely fucking hilarious. But, hey, wasn’t that you who was all ZOMG ROFLMAO when your coworker sent you “David After Dentist”? I thought so.) Golden Boy also dedicates a lot of his time to pissing on people (hence the name?), and at one point repels a couple of attackers by first farting on them and then spraying them with diarrhea. Golden Boy, ladies and gentlemen.

Magic Warriors is a pretty solid example of the kind of fantasy martial arts films that increasingly got made in the wake of Tsui Hark’s game-changing Zu Warriors From The Magic Mountain. Like that 1983 film, it delivers a ceaseless stream of frantic, wire-assisted motion and bizarre special effects -- though, of course, on a demonstrably more measly budget, which only adds to its charm. In that spirit, the movie offers a climactic battle royal in which the majority of the cast chaotically ricochets back and forth off of the walls of the King of Evil's cartoonish lair as Little Flying Dragon fights against a giant red hairball and the garbage guy chases everybody around with a giant pair of scissors.

Some people understandably find these kind of movies headache-inducing, but they tend to give me a pretty big happy. The key, though, is to give up entirely on imposing any kind of narrative sense on what’s going on in them. (Especially when you’re confronted with subtitles as typographically challenged and incoherent as those here: “No one can fight against use!”) No, it’s best to just let Magic Warriors' insanity and childish stupidity rain down on you like a golden stream of… well, you get the point.

Friday's best pop song ever