Troma Entertainment, the Maker of Acclaimed B‑Movies, Puts 150 Free Films on YouTube

It all began in 1974. That’s when Tro­ma Enter­tain­ment began pump­ing out schlocky, low-bud­get B‑films that some­how gar­ner the respect of seri­ous cineast­es. As you may know, Tro­ma’s films often fea­ture sex, gore, and graph­ic vio­lence. They also seem cus­tom made for the low-def, pell-mell world of YouTube. Which brings me to my point: Tro­ma has put over 150 movies from its back cat­a­logue on a new YouTube chan­nel, giv­ing users every­where free access to their dis­tinc­tive low­brow films.

The col­lec­tion includes Can­ni­bal! The Musi­cal, the first fea­ture film cre­at­ed by South Park cre­ators Trey Park­er and Matt Stone. But let’s not over­look these hon­or­able men­tions: The Bat­tle of Love’s Return where Oliv­er Stone made his act­ing debut; Night­beast, which fea­tures music writ­ten by JJ Abrams; and Tromeo and Juli­et, the well-reviewed 1996 film that lured in view­ers by promis­ing “Body Pierc­ing, Kinky Sex, Dis­mem­ber­ment, The Things That Made Shake­speare Great!”

The Tro­ma cat­a­logue also offers some clas­sic films, includ­ing the 1932 film White Zom­bie with Bela Lugosi and No Sub­sti­tute For Vic­to­ry!, a pro­pa­gan­dis­tic pro-Viet­nam War doc­u­men­tary host­ed by John Wayne. Select films from the Tro­ma YouTube col­lec­tion will find their way onto our list of 500 Free Movies Online.

Thanks go to Car­los S. for flag­ging these for us.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

21 Free Hitch­cock Movies Online

John Wayne: 25 Free West­ern Films on the Web

Tarkovsky Films Now Free Online

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Joseph Campbell and Bill Moyers Break Down Star Wars as an Epic, Universal Myth

Some of Star Wars’ detrac­tors call the series schlocky, blunt, pre­dictable, and implau­si­ble even by fan­ta­sy’s stan­dards. A defend­er might respond that they’re look­ing at it all wrong: to appre­ci­ate Star Wars, you need to watch it as an epic myth. George Lucas him­self, who has more or less mount­ed this argu­ment in response to charges of unsub­tle­ty, rarely seems far from drop­ping the phrase “the pow­er of myth.” That, sure­ly not coin­ci­den­tal­ly, is also the title of a 1988 Bill Moy­ers tele­vi­sion series on mythol­o­gist Joseph Camp­bell and his ideas about myth through time and across human cul­tures. Moy­ers and Camp­bell actu­al­ly con­duct­ed their first five episodes’ worth of con­ver­sa­tions at Lucas’ Sky­walk­er Ranch. Just as Lucas did his read­ing of Camp­bell, Camp­bell did his read­ing of Star Wars: in the brief clip from The Pow­er of Myth above, the schol­ar express­es his enthu­si­asm for the films’ use of mytho­log­i­cal ele­ments drawn from across the world. (Find the com­plete Pow­er of Myth series on DVD here.)

If you want to know about myth, Camp­bell remains the go-to guy. You can hear more from him on the Joseph Camp­bell Foun­da­tion’s YouTube chan­nel, which fea­tures clips of Camp­bell on the mythol­o­gy of the trick­ster, on myth as mir­ror for the ego, and, of course, on cir­cum­ci­sion. Though obvi­ous­ly not as exten­sive as the afore­men­tioned in-depth six-hour sit-down between Camp­bell and Moy­ers, they’ll still give you a sense of why Camp­bel­l’s obser­va­tions about the eter­nal rel­e­vance of the strongest myths have them­selves stayed so rel­e­vant a quar­ter-cen­tu­ry after his pass­ing. Applic­a­ble essay ques­tion: to what extent can we put the rel­a­tive lack of enthu­si­asm for the new­er Star Wars pre­quels down to George Lucas not hav­ing cracked his copy of The Hero With a Thou­sand Faces in a while?

Relat­ed con­tent:

Star Wars as Silent Film

The Exis­ten­tial Star Wars: Sartre Meets Darth Vad­er

Star Wars is a Remix

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi Square Off in a Monstrous Game of Chess (1934)

Long before the release of the cult film Drac­u­la vs. Franken­stein (Rot­ten Toma­toes calls the 1971 movie “a slap­dash epic of bad film­mak­ing”), the orig­i­nal stars of Drac­u­la and Franken­stein met face to face–for a game of chess.

The scene is from an ear­ly 1934 episode of Colum­bia Pic­tures’ Screen Snap­shots, a series of short films fea­tur­ing the off-screen lives of Hol­ly­wood stars. Carl Laemm­le at Uni­ver­sal Pic­tures had recent­ly come up with the idea of cast­ing Boris Karloff, who played the mon­ster in the 1931 film Franken­stein, and Bela Lugosi, star of the same year’s Drac­u­la, togeth­er in one movie. The Black Cat, based very loose­ly on the short sto­ry by Edgar Allan Poe, pre­miered in May of 1934 with Karloff and Lugosi at the top of the bill.

The appear­ance by Karloff and Lugosi on Screen Snap­shots #11 was essen­tial­ly a covert pro­mo­tion for The Black Cat, but because Colum­bia and Uni­ver­sal were rivals the film isn’t men­tioned. Instead, the two hor­ror stars talk about the “Film Stars Frol­ic,” a fundrais­ing event for the Screen Actors Guild that coin­cid­ed with the open­ing of Gilmore Sta­di­um in Los Angeles–and, as it hap­pened, with the pre­miere of The Black Cat. The Screen Snap­shots vignette begins with an atmos­phere of men­ace as the two men frown at one anoth­er.

“Are you ready for the test, Drac­u­la?” says Karloff.

“I’m ready, Franken­stein,” says Lugosi.

“Then–let us begin.”

At which point the two men break out laugh­ing as the cam­era pulls back to reveal a chess board. For some rea­son Drac­u­la has the white pieces.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Bela Lugosi Dis­cuss­es his Drug Habit as He Leaves the Hos­pi­tal in 1955

Bela Lugosi Discusses His Drug Habit as He Leaves the Hospital in 1955

In 1955 Bela Lugosi was in a sad state. The once-hand­some, Hun­gar­i­an-born star of Drac­u­la had seen his career degen­er­ate over the pre­vi­ous two decades until at last he was reduced to play­ing a cru­el par­o­dy of him­self in some of the tack­i­est B hor­ror films ever made. Along the way he picked up a drug habit. In late April of 1955 the 72-year-old actor, des­ti­tute and recent­ly divorced from his fourth wife, checked him­self into the psy­cho­path­ic ward at Los Ange­les Gen­er­al Hos­pi­tal. A few days lat­er, in a hear­ing held at the ward, Lugosi plead­ed with a judge to com­mit him to a state hos­pi­tal. A Unit­ed Press arti­cle from April 23, 1955 describes the scene:

Although weigh­ing only 125 pounds and only a shad­ow of his for­mer self, Lugosi’s voice was clear and res­o­nant as he told the court how shoot­ing pains in his legs led him to start tak­ing mor­phine injec­tions in 1935. With­out mor­phine, he could­n’t work, Lugosi said.

“I start­ed using it under a doc­tor’s care,” he said. “I knew after a time it was get­ting out of con­trol.”

“Sev­en­teen years ago, on a trip to Eng­land, I heard of Metho­d­one, a new drug. I brought a big box of it back home. I guess I brought a pound,” Lugosi said.

“Ever since I’ve used that, or demerol. I just took the drugs. I did­n’t eat. I got sick­er and sick­er.”

The judge com­mend­ed Lugosi for tak­ing action to fight his addic­tion, and com­mit­ted him to the Met­ro­pol­i­tan State Hos­pi­tal in Nor­walk, a sub­urb of Los Ange­les, for a min­i­mum of three months and a max­i­mum of two years. Dur­ing his time in the hos­pi­tal, the old man plot­ted his come­back. In The Immor­tal Count: The Life and Films of Bela Lugosi, Arthur Lennig writes:

While at the hos­pi­tal, Lugosi had been giv­en the script of his next Ed Wood pic­ture, The Ghoul Goes West, a strange con­coc­tion in which a mad doc­tor goes out west to car­ry out his scheme to make super-crea­tures out of cow­boys and rule the world. The actor looked for­ward to this forth­com­ing pro­duc­tion, which he believed would begin about ten days after leav­ing the hos­pi­tal, and bran­dished the script as proof that he would start work. “It’s very cute,” he said to the reporters. It prob­a­bly was­n’t, but Lugosi no doubt believed that all the front page pub­lic­i­ty, how­ev­er noto­ri­ous, would aid in his come­back, a come­back that would even­tu­al­ly raise him above the low­ly ranks of Ed Wood’s shoe­string pro­duc­tions. Bela posed for a pho­to­graph with the script in one hand while his oth­er hand was dra­mat­i­cal­ly raised in an assertive fist.

The inter­view above was filmed on August 4, 1955, one day before the actor’s release from the hos­pi­tal. In the clip, Lugosi smiles and declares him­self “a new man.” Less than three weeks lat­er he mar­ried his fifth wife, an obsessed fan who report­ed­ly sent him a let­ter every day he was in the hos­pi­tal. The Ghoul Goes West nev­er mate­ri­al­ized, but Lugosi col­lab­o­rat­ed with Ed Wood on a cou­ple of oth­er projects, includ­ing a movie that some crit­ics would even­tu­al­ly call “the worst film ever made,” Plan 9 From Out­er Space. As his hope of a gen­uine come­back crum­bled, Lugosi drank heav­i­ly. On August 16, 1956–barely over a year after his release from Met­ro­pol­i­tan State Hospital–Lugosi died of a heart attack. He was buried in his Drac­u­la cos­tume.

Sev­er­al Lugosi films appear on our big list of Free Movies Online.

The Rolling Stones Sing the Beatles’ “Eight Days a Week” in a Hotel Room (1965)

Today we set the Way­back Machine to Ire­land, 1965, where we find a young Mick Jag­ger and a shock­ing­ly restored Kei­th Richards staving off the down­time bore­dom of a two-day tour with a not-entire­ly-rev­er­en­tial Bea­t­les sin­ga­long. Despite the drab­ness of the room in which doc­u­men­tar­i­an Peter White­head caught the lads clown­ing, it’s clear that Jag­ger was feel­ing his oats. Go ahead and read those famous lips when he wraps them around the cho­rus of Eight Days a Week.

This price­less pri­vate moment is culled from the just released, not-entire­ly-fin­ished doc­u­men­tary, The Rolling Stones: Char­lie Is My Dar­ling — Ire­land 1965. For­mer Stones’ pro­duc­er Andrew Loog Old­ham recent­ly chalked the near-50-year delay to the mas­sive explo­sion of the band’s pop­u­lar­i­ty. Padding things out to a prop­er fea­ture length would have required addi­tion­al film­ing. (I Can’t Get No) Sat­is­fac­tion had shot to the top of the Amer­i­can charts just two months ear­li­er,  from which point on, the lads’ dance card was filled.

Lucky thing, that. What might in its day have amount­ed to a fun peek behind the scenes feels far more com­pelling as a just-cracked time cap­sule. The sad spec­ta­cle of Bri­an Jones mus­ing about his future options is off­set by the youth­ful lark­ing about of rock­’s most cel­e­brat­ed senior cit­i­zens.

See the trail­er for The Rolling Stones: Char­lie Is My Dar­ling — Ire­land 1965 right below.

- Ayun Hal­l­i­day briefly men­tioned Mick Jag­ger’s lips vis-à-vis Lau­ren Bacall in her mem­oir, Dirty Sug­ar Cook­ies: Culi­nary Obser­va­tions, Ques­tion­able Taste.

Watch Nosferatu, the Seminal Vampire Film, Free Online (1922)

What, you haven’t seen Nos­fer­atu yet? But you’re in luck: not only do you still have a few days left to fit this sem­i­nal clas­sic of vam­pir­ic cin­e­ma into your Hal­loween view­ing rota­tion, but when the 31st comes, you can watch it free online yet again. An inspi­ra­tion for count­less vam­pire films that would fol­low over the next nine­ty years, F.W. Mur­nau’s 1922 silent fea­ture adapts Bram Stok­er’s Drac­u­la, but just loose­ly enough so that it could put its own stamp on the myth and not actu­al­ly have to pay for rights to the nov­el. Jonathan and Mina Hark­er? Now Thomas and Ellen Hut­ter. Jonathan’s boss Ren­field? Now a fel­low named Knock. Count Drac­u­la, to whose vast and crum­bling estate Ren­field sends the hap­less Jonathan? Now Count Orlok — and unfor­get­tably so. We can post no more rel­e­vant endorse­ment of Nos­fer­atu’s endur­ing val­ue than to say that it remains scary, or at least eerie, to this day. I defy any sophis­ti­cat­ed mod­ern view­er to spend All Hal­lows’ eve with this pic­ture and not come away feel­ing faint­ly unset­tled.

Part of it has to do with sheer age: while some visu­al effects haven’t held up — get a load of Orlok escap­ing his cof­fin in the ship’s car­go hold, employ­ing a tech­nique trust­ed by every nine-year-old with a video cam­era — the deeply worn look and feel seems, at moments, to mark the film as com­ing from a dis­tant past when aris­to­crat­ic blood-suck­ing liv­ing corpses may as well have exist­ed.

This same process has, over four decades, imbued with a pati­na of men­ace every hor­ror film made in the sev­en­ties. Fans of the 1979 Wern­er Her­zog-Klaus Kin­s­ki col­lab­o­ra­tion Nos­fer­atu the Vampyre, a com­pan­ion piece obvi­ous­ly worth view­ing in any case, can attest to this. You might also con­sid­er incor­po­rat­ing in your Hal­loween night view­ing E. Elias Mer­hige’s Shad­ow of the Vam­pire, a satire of the 1920s film indus­try’s col­li­sion of eccen­tric old-world crafts­man­ship and sav­age com­mer­cial buf­foon­ery which imag­ines Orlok as hav­ing been played by a geni­une vam­pire. As for Fran­cis Ford Cop­po­la’s rights-hav­ing 1992 adap­ta­tion Bram Stok­er’s Drac­u­la… well, its chief point of inter­est is still Gary Old­man’s hair­style.

You can always find Nos­fer­atu on our list of Great Silent Films, part of our larg­er col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Fritz Lang’s Metrop­o­lis: Uncut & Restored

Where Hor­ror Film Began: The Cab­i­net of Dr. Cali­gari

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Fellini: I’m a Born Liar Profiles the Filmmaker’s Love of Artifice (and Features Italo Calvino)

“If you know lit­tle about Felli­ni,” warns Roger Ebert in his review of Felli­ni: I’m a Born Liar (watch it free online here), â€śthis is not the place to start.” Per­haps he right­ly issues such a dis­claimer about a for­mal­ly unortho­dox doc­u­men­tary that plunges deeply and imme­di­ate­ly into the aes­thet­ics of its sub­jec­t’s work while pay­ing bare­ly any heed to the facts of his life. But if you can’t say that Fed­eri­co Felli­ni dealt near-exclu­sive­ly in aes­thet­ics, you can’t say it about any­one. The direc­tor’s love of arti­fice, which even­tu­al­ly led to his total ded­i­ca­tion to shoot­ing all scenes on a sound­stage, pro­duced motion pic­tures so flam­boy­ant yet so dis­tinc­tive and per­son­al that first-time view­ers still find them­selves unde­cid­ed as to whether to call them ele­gant or grotesque. The ver­dict, as any reg­u­lar attendee of revival screen­ings of 8½, Juli­et of the Spir­its, Satyri­con, and Amar­cord knows, is that they’re both: grotesque to the extent of their ele­gance, and ele­gant to the extent of their grotesque­ness. This already gives doc­u­men­tar­i­an Dami­an Pet­ti­grew much to work with, and indeed, he would have had the mate­r­i­al and exper­tise to assem­ble a robust essay film on Fellini’s visu­als alone. But he chose to make a fresh­er exam­i­na­tion.

Though he pre­miered the movie in 2002, Pet­ti­grew’s real work on I’m a Born Liar began near­ly twen­ty years before. In 1983, he met with the Ital­ian nov­el­ist Ita­lo Calvi­no, intend­ing to shoot a doc­u­men­tary about him. But upon real­iz­ing that their con­ver­sa­tions came around inevitably to Felli­ni, the writer arranged a sur­prise meet­ing of the two film­mak­ers. Years lat­er, Felli­ni would sub­mit to the ten-hour inter­view from Pet­ti­grew that struc­tures this film. Cer­tain col­lab­o­ra­tors give tes­ti­mo­ny, notably still-shak­en actors like Don­ald Suther­land and Ter­ence Stamp. But Calvi­no’s own appear­ance turns out to shed the most light on his coun­try­man’s work, and vice ver­sa, not least because both of them pre­ferred to find the truth through elab­o­rate fab­ri­ca­tion. I’m a Born Liar’s sur­pris­ing­ly thor­ough Wikipedia page quotes a pas­sage from Calvi­no’s Mr. Palo­mar that sup­pos­ed­ly inspired Felli­ni on a shoot, but may also reflect the whole basis of his craft: “Life on the sur­face is so rich and var­i­ous that I have no urge to enquire fur­ther. I believe that it is only when you’ve come to know the sur­face of things that you can try to find out what lies beneath. But the sur­face of things is inex­haustible.”

Relat­ed con­tent:

Fed­eri­co Felli­ni Intro­duces Him­self to Amer­i­ca in Exper­i­men­tal 1969 Doc­u­men­tary

Fellini’s Fan­tas­tic TV Com­mer­cials

John Tur­tur­ro Reads Ita­lo Calvino’s Ani­mat­ed Fairy Tale

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

New Animated Film Tells the Life Story of Monty Python’s Graham Chapman

John Cleese, Eric Idle, Ter­ry Jones, Ter­ry Gilliam, and Michael Palin have all entered their late six­ties and ear­ly sev­en­ties in rea­son­able pro­duc­tiv­i­ty. Gra­ham Chap­man, how­ev­er, “self­ish­ly dropped dead in 1989,” thus tak­ing on the offi­cial title of “the dead one from Mon­ty Python.” That comes straight from the press mate­ri­als pro­mot­ing A Liar’s Auto­bi­og­ra­phy: The Untrue Sto­ry of Mon­ty Python’s Gra­ham Chap­man, the high­ly non­tra­di­tion­al biopic that recent­ly made its debut in the Unit­ed King­dom. The elab­o­rate pro­duc­tion com­mand­ed the visu­al tal­ents of no few­er than four­teen sep­a­rate ani­ma­tion stu­dios and the vocal tal­ents of no few­er than five Pythons, Chap­man him­self includ­ed. Short­ly before his pass­ing, Chap­man record­ed him­self read­ing the text of his auto­bi­og­ra­phy A Liar’s Auto­bi­og­ra­phy (Vol­ume VI), and that audio track pro­vides the basis of the ver­i­ta­ble kalei­do­scope of aes­thet­ic sen­si­bil­i­ties and lev­els of comedic taste you can glimpse in the trail­er above. Oh, and the film’s in 3D.

The notion that a tale like Chap­man’s life demands a pack of tellers has a prece­dent in the book, which famous­ly cred­its five authors: Chap­man him­self, his part­ner David Sher­lock, The Hitch­hik­er’s Guide to the Galaxy mas­ter­mind Dou­glas Adams, crime writer David Yal­lop, and Alex Mar­tin. Those at all famil­iar with Chap­man should feel pleased to see rep­re­sent­ed in the trail­er a seem­ing­ly appro­pri­ate mix­ture of har­row­ing for­ma­tive wartime expe­ri­ence, sex­u­al adven­ture, obvi­ous fab­ri­ca­tion, and sheer drunk­en­ness — and that does­n’t yet take into account all that Mon­ty Python busi­ness. The trail­er’s final moments cred­it its absur­di­ty-lov­ing, pipe-smok­ing sub­ject with call­ing A Liar’s Auto­bi­og­ra­phy â€śthe best movie I’ve been in since I died.” That takes it out of com­pe­ti­tion with the beloved Mon­ty Python and the Holy Grail and Mon­ty Python’s Life of Bri­an in which Chap­man liv­ing­ly starred, but it still looks like a for­mi­da­ble effort. And the sur­viv­ing Pythons might tell you, it’d sure­ly hold its own against Yel­low­beard.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Mon­ty Python’s Best Phi­los­o­phy Sketch­es

Mon­ty Python Live at the Hol­ly­wood Bowl: The Com­e­dy Clas­sic

Alan Watts and His Zen Wis­dom Ani­mat­ed by Cre­ators of South Park

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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