December 4–11, 1997

icepack

Sal Mazzotta (left) on the set of The Evil Within.

Out Damned Spot

Blood on the tracks, photos and the big screen.

by a.d. amorosi

My obsessions as a kid were not the typical sports and games. My concerns were shadowy, sinister and filled with blood. Everything from true crime and vampirism to the horror of Universal Pictures monsters caught my eye. However, my fascination did not lean toward gore. It was the more hidden aspects I was interested in: How did the red fluid get there? What made it? And—being fashion-conscious even then—will blood come out with club soda or does it have to be dry-cleaned?

Jamaican-born Jeff Bydalek, who worked as assistant producer on Cocktail and Cool Runnings before heading for a decidedly less sunny career in Philly, can tell you a little bit about taming the drippy red menace. Calling from Extreme Pictures (a Broomall, PA, infomercial production house looking to become a feature production house) Bydalek talks about the just-finished filming of The Evil Within; a Super 16 mm suspense thriller—budgeted at approximately $100,000—with a '90s twist on '80s horror.

"Blood is portrayed better in your imagination," says Bydalek of the deep, dark, red secrets that explode from The Evil Within's body count. It's a story about a home that pushes its owner to insanity. Eventually, the man kills eight members of his family before hanging himself. When writer Tony DiGerolamo and producer/star Sal Mazzotta brought the script to Bydalek, he turned it into less of a "campy, schlocky horror film like Halloween and more of a thriller."

The plot moves back and forth from the '50s, when the murders were committed, to the present, when the murderer's granddaughter inherits the house. The action takes place everywhere from the front porch of Tony Luke's sandwich shop in South Philly to an old homestead in Wayne, PA. The piece, shot in 14 "fairly grueling" 12-hour days, resembles a cross between In Cold Blood, Desperate Hours and Evil.

"The [haunted] house, just a block down from the military academy where Taps was shot, was built in 1890. Every morning I'd hear reveille," says Bydalek. "The house is the star unto itself—ominous and gloomy."

The final result is more starkly surreal and luminous than blood-curdling. It's like watching rats clamoring to flee from vicious traps.

"The way I've portrayed [the blood]," says Bydalek, "it lives larger in what you believe to be happening... There's nothing scarier I can do than let your mind run away with itself. What you're thinking is much worse than what I can show."

(The Evil Within is scheduled for a February release.)

When tabloid-news photographer Weegee set his flash-bulb-bursting camera on the world at large, he usually saw red laced in silver, black and white. His visions captured the miserably seamy side of New York's crime-ridden neighborhoods of the '30s, '40s and '50s. Miles Barth portrays Weegee's naked city with the brusque, disgusted haste it was intended in his book, Weegee's World (Little, Brown). Up to this point, the best examples of Weegee's work could only be found in Jim Thompson's books, Joel Peter Witkin's art, John Zorn's record covers or in that underrated film, The Public Eye. Although Barth's descriptions are in-your-face, Weegee doesn't just use bloody sensation or violent punctuation. His photos bathe in the morality of evil: Lousy things happen to louses and sometimes, well, sometimes the innocent get fucked over too. Weegee's street-opera apocalypse is strewn with shots of giddy neighbors, goofy post-vaudevillians like Monty Reed and Tilly, and bashed-about schnooks. Hideously bloody visages scream a blue streak and flow with bits of marrow and bulged eyeballs. Through all this devastation, Weegee, like Bydalek, still manages subtlety and secretiveness while spilling plenty of guts. Weegee's savaged neighborhoods of rangy pulpitude make Quentin Tarantino's rum-red punch look like a toasted almond treat.

When electronic godhead Moby first tackled movie-music with a haunting take on Angelo Badalamenti's Twin Peaks siren-like theme (turning it into the mesmerizingly dense "Go"), it was powerfully apparent that the moody remixer had an ear for the screen. Moby is a passionate musician and writer devoted as much to the skin as he is the sacred and profane. So his last album, the hardcore guitar-scarred Animal Rights, was bloodless. Big deal. His new film-score compilation, I Like To Score (Elektra), and side project, Voodoo Child's The End Of Everything (Elektra), are handsomely epic and thematically lush.

Rather than set layers of dry synths against strictly timed beats, Moby's flickeringly icy "Oil 1" for The Saint is more action-packed (and memorable) than the film. His bumpy ride for Scream's "First Cool Hive" is as suspicious as each of Wes Craven's motives, moving along with a sly humor which is site-specific to the giddy horrorscape. But it's Moby's take on the new James Bond theme, a slickly devious remix for Tomorrow Never Dies, that proves the charm. It's fussy without being trite; supremely male and lovingly feline at the same time. And it rages like a stiff drink or a hard-on. Moby likes to score. I like to hear it.

(Moby and Juno Reactor play on Saturday, Dec. 6, at the Theater of Living Arts, 334 South St., 922-1011.)

SPACEJUNK: Tuesdays at Martini's Lounge is turning into a guest house as it hosts bartenders and celeb mixologists from all over town. With Lee Jones bumping, barkeeps like Angie (of Woody's), Brasil-nut Mike Bellsen and the Shampoo kids join Mistress Dee Duffy with thematic trips down the bar. Look for my pour to come in January... EFC and car guy George Polgar hosting weekly "teen dances" with hi-energy track acts at the Sports Super Center in Juniata Park soon? How soon?... See the billboards, believe the hype: The Hip-Hop Cafe—a rap-thematic restaubar—is opening next to Pompano Grille. Along with whack memorabilia (like Vanilla Ice—not a facsimile but the real guy), the menu'll include Puff Daddy pastry, Wu Tangy Shrimp and Lil' Kim Catfish... Schoolly "muthafuckin'" D. and Christian James spin "Funkin' Pussy" at Smoke each Saturday with their own remix soundtrack to boot; a funked-up rarity released by the club... Local Rykodisc label gal Christina deGatis is leaving Philly for NYC's RZO, the investment firm that set up the famous $55 mil Bowie Bonds. Lovely Christina'll see to world-licensing fees/royalties for Bowie, Patti Smith and Joe Jackson. Earnest Ryko-lawyer John Luneau will teach a night law class at Villanova U. each Monday... Chanterelles' Philippe Chin has opened Wrap Planet, a South 16th Street rolled-up sandwich shop. Big deal? Yeah. Bare-assed designer Mark Brodzik did the bizarre decor... The Mask & Wig plays host to the unconstitutional when Philly sextet Shellito rocks their house Dec. 5... B-day kisses to luscious redhead Patrice Caldwell, beauteous blonde Jodi Large, Rasta Kris (ale 'n' attitude at Sugar Mom's every Friday), evil film guy Richard Murray and bar lovelies Matt from Palmer and Casey from Shampoo.