Word: hitchcocked
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...Phillips and Dina Meyer, the bats are surprisingly human. Bats is so painfully unaware of its own ridiculousness that it qualifies for a place in the annals of camp classics.Yet, there is nothing tongue-in-cheek about this film. It is marketed as a thriller, in the tradition of Hitchcock's classic The Birds. Bats totally lacks the sensitivity of Hitchcock's thriller. In fact, this movie makes one yearn for the emotional depth of Child's Play and the subtlety of Moe, Curly, Larry or even Shemp...
...ATTACK It was like a Hitchcock movie, but it was real life. Last week scientists reported that fire ants--so named because their sting feels like a hot poker--swarmed Mississippi nursing homes, attacking and killing two patients. The elderly patients were bedridden and couldn't escape the invaders. But healthy folks who live in infested areas--such as the Southeast and parts of California--are also vulnerable to attacks. If you see the creatures indoors, immediately exterminate them with pesticide before they close...
...Tutor yourself in cultural understanding at the Boston Public Library (700 Boylston St.; T: Copley; 536-5400). Along with books, the library offers lectures, conferences, film and video programs, prose and poetry, concerts, dr a.m.a, art and architecture tours and forums. "Alfred Hitchcock: The a.m.erican Thrillers" Film Series, Mondays at 6 p.m. in the Rabb Lecture Hall...
...like it (eight-millimeter footage and all), would probably have been created by our collective unconscious. That's not to say The Blair Witch Project is a bad movie. In terms of premise alone, it's probably one of the most original features of the decade. But an Alfred Hitchcock film this is not. Its tireless commitment to the most bleak form of realism, while admirable in this age of special effects-laden horror films, gives it the emotional depth of an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. The fear of the movie's characters is raw and brutal, but the fear...
Stars typically take the cheers or the heat for these moments; writers just take the money. It has ever been thus. Bob Hope's gagmen were awakened at 3 a.m. for emergency jokes; James Allardice wrote the droll TV monologues that made Alfred Hitchcock a household deity. But these scribes were as anonymous as the Roman speechwriter who whispered into the dying Caesar's ear, "Say, 'Et tu, Brute?'" So it's nice that Vilanch, a wide guy with a blond mop that makes him look like an obscene Senor Wences puppet...