Remember a few entries ago when I talked about WITCHFINDER GENERAL,
a classy movie about foul, manipulative torturers who roamed about ye
olde Englishe countryside doling out cruelty, extortion, and rape while
taking advantage of the fearful and ignorant and claiming to be doing
God's work? Well, bunkies, now's the time to enlighten you on what can
happen in the wake of an artful work dealing with highly unpleasant
subject matter, namely the crass exploitation of the worthwhile piece's
less-than-savory aspects. That's right, I'm talking about WITCHFINDER
GENERAL's embarrassing bastard child, the odious MARK OF THE DEVIL.
Released in 1970, this West German shocker was originally entitled HEXEN
BIS AUFS BLUT GEQUALT — which my fluent-German-speaking pal Mindless
Kirby assures me translates as WITCHES ARE TORTURED TO DEATH — and its
threadbare plot wastes the talents of both a young Udo Kier (a very
versatile actor whom I've always liked and genuinely feel he's never
received the recognition he deserves) and the ever-reliable Herbert Lom
in what is essentially an uninvolving excuse for a good number of
graphic sequences of innocent young women enduring sadistic torture
after being falsely accused of witchcraft. That's really all there is to
it and even though it's vile, disgusting, and incredibly sleazy in its
presentation, its scabrous "thrills" eventually get old and in no time
you'll find yourself looking to down another beer or throw in your
ever-within-reach copy of 18 AND NASTY VOL. 10 (which I recommend
infinitely more than MARK OF THE DEVIL) and heartily begin shuffling off
some knuckle-children. I don't mean to skimp on outlining the details,
but there really is no point in doing so with this one, and I only
mention it because it's the middle stage in the evolution of its niche
in the genre, which paved the way for the ultimate and very classy
witch-related torture film that succeed it. But more on that later...
My main reason for bringing up MARK OF THE DEVIL was due to the lasting
impact it had on me when I was about three months away from turning
seven years old, just before my family left California and moved to the
opposite side of the United States. It was the spring of 1972 and this
wee Bunche was accompanying his mother and aunt to a local shopping
mall. Once the station wagon had been parked in the outdoor parking lot,
we went inside and spent however long shopping and enjoying lunch in
the food court, and when we went outside we were greeted with the
astonishing sight of nearly every car in the lot having a folded and
(thankfully) unused MARK OF THE DEVIL vomit bag tucked snug under one of
the vehicle's windshield wipers.
An example of one of the bags that so sparked my under-seven-year-old admiration.
My mom and aunt were both perplexed but soon sussed out that the bags
were basically the kind one received on airplane flights so one could
hurl during turbulence, only here they were re-purposed to catch geysers
of spew brought on by the myriad horrors that MARK OF THE DEVIL so
merrily splashed across the screen like so many buckets of offal during
the film's American release's novel publicity blitz. My elders were
highly amused by this and when they explained it all to me, I was
absolutely delighted at the concept of a film so gross that it actually
made people vomit. Unfortunately, my mom removed the MARK OF THE DEVIL
vomit bag from beneath the windshield of her station wagon and promptly
threw it away, which is a great pity because now those fucking things
are collector's items and I would love to have one. (They can be had for
cheap and one day I'll get one — or more — but to have the very one
from that magical, formative moment in my childhood would be sheer
bliss.)
Poster from the original West German release.
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