LET’S GET THE BANNED BACK TOGETHER! Ep 13 – “INVASION OF THE BLOOD FARMERS” 1972

“First and only time director Ed Adlum made “Blood Farmers” over three weekends in 1972, on a budget of $24,000, with amateur actors paid in cans of beer. The result is a sub-Ed Wood “horror” film that isn’t scary, is unintentionally funny in places but tedious in others, and a chore to watch.”

IRONCURATOR. One star. AMAZON.CO.UK

Who made it? Directed by Ed Adlum| Written by Ed Adlum / Ed Kelleher  | Director Of Photography Roberta Findlay | Special Effects Rod Griswold | Music Sam Douglas

Who’s in it? Joshua Bryant | Irene Kelly | David S Cass Sr | John Martin | Carle Bensen

If you weren’t watching this the week it came out, you might have been watching…

Unclear release date. Top ten 1972 movies include Diamonds Are Forever / The Godfather / Fiddler On the Roof / The Devils / Steptoe & Son / The French Connection

Production notes and whatnot

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0068540/

What’s it all about?

Well to be fair, we are digging into the bottom of the barrels on beach at last resort. That scraping sound is me trying to summon up the energy to tell you the plot of Ed Adlum’s “Invasion Of The Blood Farmers.” I can tell you’re humming and hawing over maybe investing the Blu-Ray, so let me guide you through what to expect. Brace yourself.

Once again the music, this time by a new name to us, Sam Douglas, is not holding back on its thundering score as we get a whole lotta dan-dan-dahhhh which is now pretty de rigur for this sort of effort. Lots of oboe, though, which is nice.

A menacing voice over – who may not actually be James Mason but is having a bloody good go to be “Masonic” (as is this whole movie, now I realise the pun) – explains to us the history of druids, of sacrifices, of rituals and ancient lost customs. All very portentous.

And cliché number four, the movie begins proper as we are now presented with the old stalwart of the bloodied “victim” stumbling up the dusty country road, streaked with beetrooty blood and staggering and moaning. It’s all very Wes Craven. What has happened to this poor fellah? And is this hick small town of coffee-shops, gas stations and pool-bars gonna be any assistance?

Well it would appear not. The man, (we’ll call him Jim as the rest of the cast seem intent on doing so) bumbles in, interrupting a collection of denimed, lite-beer sippin’ good ole’ boys, all oil smeared t-shirts and trucker caps.

The yee-haas are talking, in amateur dramatic plodding tones, about Helen who’s be “gawn an’ missin’ these last 2 weeks.” Barely is there time to reach for a spittoon or another refreshing tin of beer, when Jim smashes through the door and starts screaming and yowling. Or at least his dubbing mixer does. Clearly all put in in post-production, Jim mouths and slavers and some other actor bellows and yells. The mouth and sound don’t match. Don’t be surprised by this drop in quality – we’re already in “shot over a weekend with my mates with a borrowed 16mm camera while our wives were playing golf” aesthetic.

And down Jim goes. Very, very dead and very, very covered in beetroot juice passing for the purplest blood you’ve seen outside the Texas Ribena Massacre.

Meanwhile! Hooray! We meet the heroes of our drama. Two of the preppiest, clean-cut, apple-pie college types you’ve ever seen. Alice bands, knee socks, loafers, khakis, blonde hair and big Kennedy-esque clean-livin’ smiles.

He is a dead spit of the old Blue Peter presenter Peter Duncan (later of “Duncan Dares” {BBC 1985-87}) or if you are of an American persuasion, someone who could pass for Larry “CHiPs” Wilcox’s cousin. As young lovers will, they talk of life and the fact that Duncan (as we will call him) is learning at the elbow of her father to become a pathologist.

Cut to a very sudden and non-NHS blood transfusion, deep in a deserted shack, as our druids (remember them) are chaining a poor female victim by the neck, much screaming and tortuous whatnot going on. A man in a black hooded robes unties her. Is this the missing Helen? I mean, probably yes. But let’s not spoil it.

Next? We are with the dad-in-law in his rustic laboratory. (It’s a shed with some test tubes in it). He is testing the blood from poor dead Jim.

Apparently, he explains to Duncan, the blood he gathered from the scene…reproduces! And we see it doing so, bubbling away and growing in a beaker. Blood growing? That can’t be right.

But growing it is, very much in the manner of the spongey dessert Woody Allen’s robot attempts to control in one of the best scenes in 1973’ Sleeper.

Dad-In-Law explains what happened to poor Jim, with some cod-medical mumbo-jumbo “His homeostatic stasis was so out of balance be blew himself up!”

Hmm. Okay.

By the way, the father in law isn’t played by a chuckling Wilfred Brimley from Carpenter’s The Thing, but only because they could only afford a “chuckle-alike.”

Back in the hick bar they are scrubbing Jim’s blood from the sawdusty tiles. But…hey, what’s this? The more they scrub…the more blood there is! Perhaps ole’ discount Brimley is right?

And now, as if by magic, we have our Crazy Ralph. You’ll remember the “Crazy Ralph” trope from past reviews. He’s very much a mainstay in this sort of “splattery small town” caper. Much like Randy Quaid in 1996’s Independence Day, he’s got a warning for us all! He warns of hidden demons in the mist!

They get him a pint and he shuts up.

But wait, who is this weird new chap in the bar? All dungarees and squinty twitchiness? He’s askin’ directions to another part of town. Hell, he ain’t from these parts. Perhaps he’s some Invading Blood Farmer? (I’m jumping ahead a little bit here). But the newcomer is soon chased away from the bar and out of town by a huge white dog. We’re not sure why. Maybe he smells of cats. It’s not clear. But dogs don’t trust this fellah, which should tell anyone who’s studied “Screenwriting For Beginners” he’s a wrong’ un. See the station-toilet scene in Pulp Fiction.

“He’s barkin’ at me. I mean he’s barkin’ at ME.”

And then something unexpected happens (or terribly predictable happens, depending on how many of these appalling cheap splatter-flicks you’ve seen). Out in the forest, by the river, the dog jumps up at Dungaree man. They appear to dance and struggle, or rather then actor does his best with half a white polyester rug, and then the man eats the dog. Yep. Eats the dog. Or gives him enough of a bite to kill him.

However (and I’m attempting more suspense than the movie manages), during the dungaree vs canine struggle, we see a mystical KEY dropped in the stream. Could this be the legendary KEY OF MALANON? Or perhaps a DAGGER OF MAGIDO? Or, ffs, is it THE GOBLET OF FIRE? Well the camera lingers enough to tell us this key is important and ole dungaree-face shouldn’t have dropped it in all his pooch-munching antics.

Phew! So what’s next?

Well we now get something worth mentioning, as the camera suddenly gives us what we in the trade call a “Lewton Bus”.

Now if you know your stuff, you will know the term. Named after the famous heart-stopping HISSSSS of a bus in 1942’s Cat People, it refers to a sudden noise or shock designed to jump-scare the audience, that turns out to be something innocent. A cat, a car, a balloon popping. Whatever.

So we get a nice “Lewton Bus” with a blanket shaken in the camera that turns out to be…a fuckin’ blanket.

There are a fair amount of “lewton buses” in this movie. It’s like Lewton Bus Depot on a busy Saturday.

But hold on. Keep up! We’re back now with the preppy twins. All happy families over breakfast of coffee and eggs, Leave It To Beaver style. The only fly in the ointment for the preppy twins is their missing dog? Hmmmn. Where could the hound be?

Dan dan dahhhh! There it is. Hanged in the porch, all fur and blood. Duncan finds the mysterious key. What could it be? A harmless trinket? And why is the dog’s blood missing? What CAN be going on? It’s almost as if there has been…I dunno, an invasion of blood farmers? Or something.

We haven’t had a decent murder in a while so we now get a lovely little set piece of a newly wed type couple in a motel. She’s in the bathroom, he’s getting undressed, so far so cosy. All of this is filmed in one take, in one shot, from a fixed camera (like a stage play) to cut down on cost and time. It’s very 1970s, (all pink velour and brown suede). There is fuss with sponge-bags and nightgowns and whatnot. All very Kays Catalogue. However someone is on the hunt for blood (an invading farmer perchance?) and as they prepare for their wedding night out dungaree-sporting creep appears! Doing his best to mirror the tension, horror and shock of Hitchcock, the director gets Mr Dungaree to attack the man in the shower.

Watching this scene, and Psycho, back to back should be enough to convince anyone that film directing is a skill most people simply don’t have.

Beating, blood, shock, blood, beating, falling, flailing, beating. The arm movements don’t even match the sound effects. And the “blood” is blackcurrant jam.

But now, with this fresh victim, we get – at last – an insight into the titular Blood Farmers and their dastardly plan.

And what a plan it is. (Ahem).

We join them in a cabin out in the woods. Their leader (the offspring of Kurt Russel and Doogie Howser MD) incants and chants over the same clear-plastic coffin left over from The New Adventures Of Snow White. See episode 6 of this site). His dead queen lies in the plastic box, awaiting enough blood to revive her! He chants and incants and tries not to think about his stick-on grey sideburns.

“It will soon be TIME!” he chants. Time for what, is not clear. “We must save the race!” he chants. “The Queen must have a host to avoid the Prince Of Darkness” he chants. He’s clearly making it up as he goes along. He needs blood to save some race of some sort. It’s all rather Ira Levin (if that means anything? Rosemary’s Baby? Stepford Wives? The king of pulp novels about suburbia being over-run by mystery. See also, The Boys From Brazil. Man that guy could write a concept).

As he does all this, a tall gormless “Egor” type nods along, giving it plenty of Peter Lorre-type “yesssss masssster!” This is important, as you will see in about 4 paragraphs.

As the incantations continue, we see our newly wed motel-man all trussed up in a barn. They want his blood! They are farming it! Like some kind of Invasion of Blood Farmers! And so on.

But wait! The Key Of Melanon is missing! They must have the key! For…reasons! Doh! He dropped it when eating the dog. They must find it! Otherwise…things.

We then get, which is becoming a trope in these movies, a 60 second cut-in of an entirely pointless, storyless, gratuitous murder just to keep the body count up. A beardy gardener is grabbed by a black- hooded man. They wrestle! As does the camera-operator! And boom! A bill-hooked machete! He’s dead. And they presumably farm his blood. For…reasons.

Right. That got that one out of the way.

So now the preppy fellah Duncan is showing off his find. A weird key! Found near the dead dog/rug. What could it be? A very unusual metal… The dad-in-law knows a metallurgist. He will call him. He does. But the metallurgist is…? EGOR! Yep, the guy from the ceremony. Although how the dad in law knows him if he’s an invading blood-farmer is not clear. Where have they invaded from? Two streets away? (Or is someone PRETENDING to be the metallurgist??!!) What do you think. Sigh. Let’s keep going.

Egor (or whoever) will go and get the key! All will be well.

On the way, of course, they stumble across a “drifter type.” We know he’s a drifter, as he has fallen out of the local pool-hall/bar, stinking of whisky. He is picked up as a hitchhiker. I wonder what will become of him? And his blackcurrant jam/blood?

Back at the homestead, dad-in-law and Egor discuss the key. “Tis’ but a cheap penny arcade trinket” Egor says. Well he would do, wouldn’t he?

The chief of police meanwhile calls the bar. He’ll be back tomorrow. Cue dumb clutzy cliche deputy (all brown bomber jacket and dumb expression straight out of The Cannonball run) getting stressed about the Chief finding out he’s been a-drinkin; on the jaaaawb!

The Blood Farmers drain the body of the drifter. Of course they do. The coven all line up to kiss the Perspex queen. Apparently this will help.It’s not made clear why.

The newly arrived police chief drops in on the preppy twins. Asks many a question. What the hell’s been going on?

Another random “let’s keep the body-count high” murder of a young woman by the stream. That’ll keep the blood-hungry viewers sated, and the censors busy.

And now…Egor arrives at the father-in-laws laboratory. (Don’t worry, there’s only about 15mins left of this utter drivel).

With a variety of phone calls, the dad-in-law realises that the man who’s pretending to be the Key expert is an imposter! Egor tells Doogie Howser that everyone knows too much! They must be destroyed!

At which point the movie descends into rapid fire chaos. Egor kidnaps the preppy lady and her dad! They must be part of the blood sacrifice! There is rope and struggling. Duncan tells the chief of police! “They’ve gone!”

Mr Sideburns decides the preppy girl can be the blood sacrifice/host/whatever. Honestly, I’ve no idea. There is loud incantations of “smiting your enemies!” (Which enemies, it’s not clear). Duncan goes to the house to search for his bethrothed!

In what is clearly the last day of filming, in mid afternoon on a Californian hill, blood is wiped over Perspex-queen’s lips! She awakes! And then chaos reigns as everyone fights and falls and stabs and chants and generally all fall down like the end of “Ring a Ring Of Roses.” She-Preppy is injected with the “stop your blood turning into Sleeper sponge pudding” serum. The score goes apeshit bonkers on the piano.

Everyone bad is dead. Preppy and father-in-law are fine.

It’s a new day. A new dawn. It’s absolute nonsense.

Is It Any Good?

No. I’m sorry if you need more than that, but no. And anyone who tells you this is a “classic of the genre” may be right. But honestly, it doesn’t mean you have to watch it. In a genre that can give you Straw Dogs or Night Of The Living Dead? Jesus…

What we have here is yet another “spooky bloodthirsty murders in a small hick town.” Invasion Of The Blood Farmers is another in a long line of feeble hick-heavy “horror movies” that is neither scary, horrific, shocking or indeed, remotely noteworthy. It has the standard amateur production values of no end of “shot over a weekend”, overcast, am-dram, plodding pieces of US nonsense that the hard working British constabulary had to spend valuable time seizing and storing and charging and prosecuting, because of a leery video-box and the word “blood” in the title.

The production is the wrong side of cheap, many scenes clearly done with a single camera on a tripod and everyone plodding through half-learnt dialogue. If ANY of the cast were actual actors, I would be shocked and stunned to find out which.

It has every shlock cliché going but does nothing remotely interesting with them: The crazy local “Ralph” warning everyone; the tortured animals warning of evils to come; the meaningless druidy incantations suggesting the supernatural; the Gregorian chant/latin to conjure up mysticism. And on and on.

As mentioned, the “shower scene” murder only highlights what can happen when a visionary director (Hitchcock, with a rumoured heavy hand from Saul Bass) has material that an amateur director has. Psycho is shocking. Stunning. Startling. This is stabby, splatty. Silly.

Cops are in the classic hick “brown bomber jackets” – a clear sign, at least in the UK, of racist, dumb, hick good old boys. See every movie ever made ever (mainly Smokey & The Bandit).

There is absolutely nothing to recommend this picture. Not silly enough to be fun, not gory enough to revolt, not tense enough to grip. 77mins you’ll never get back.

Nasty?

Well no, not really. You can see plenty more in plenty other movies. My notes tell me there are a handful of “kills.” But yet again, as we are discovering, real gore-hounds want the “during” – knives on flesh, daggers in stomachs, machetes in skulls. What we have here, once more, is a lot of “flailing about with knives” and a lot of “screaming close ups” that end with “actor lying down covered  in jam.” The “blood harvesting” scenes are actors writhing and squirming with tubes full of Ribena sticking out of their shirts. Nothing to see here.

Ban worthy?

No. Simply no. Not enough effort, syrup, prosthetics, care or talent has gone into the making of this nonsense to bother anyone bar the most shivery or nervous of patrons. Maybe I’ve seen too many by now? But its cheese and jam and shaky-cam and if you;ve seen ANY horror movie in the world, even the PG family favourites, you’ll be bored by this effort

What Does It Remind Me Of?

Well we’ve had some ropey old nonsense so far but this effort is right up there. Filmed in the director’s house over a number of summer weekends, the cast rumoured to have been paid in beer, it’s at the naff end of the spectrum, up there with a clunky amateur-hour cue-card reading of Blood Feast and Blood Rites. The gore is splashy blackcurrent reaction shots that are of the preposterous type, without even the relish or scrunge of Night Of The Bloody Apes. In fact Afternoon Of The Bloody Stupid would be a much better title for this silly cheapie.

Where Can I See it?

Here. If you genuinely have nothing else to do: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IN3iNxq0GBQ