NIGHT OF THE GHOULS (1959) **1/2 Criswell's opening monologue, the farmer's wife's screams, and Edward Wood, Jr.'s existential narrative foray into juvenile delinquency and the divination of holiday traffic fatalities sets a pace that even the enchanted master can't sustain. Or especially the enchanted master can't sustain, whatever. The truth is that Ed Wood's unique and juvenile and special and unique genius is manifest on occasion throughout the film, but only on occasion. The first séance is unquestionably magnificent, and no less so because Edward understands the elements that, ahem, bring it to life, and so repeats them mercilessly. Ed's dialogue is also typically pedestrian to the point of hyperrealism borne of the hysteria of just knowing Thoreau's out there somewhere. And the monsters, I mean, how would Tor Johnson look dancing on the corner of a Parliament/Funkadelic stage? It's not a masterpiece and it's not a minor masterpiece, but it has a special feel to it and there's no shame in having sat through it. Having done so, however, you may feel that you'd rather wear a t-shirt about it than sit through it again.
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