Graciously, Bloody Disgusting has allowed me to write over 40 entries for my “Revenge of the Remakes” column. I’ve hit plenty of popular franchises and mainstream renovations, but as of late, I’ve veered into more obscure territories. That’s where the fun begins, frankly. As this series’ author and a hardcore genre fan, I’ve recently challenged […]
Graciously, Bloody Disgusting has allowed me to write over 40 entries for my “Revenge of the Remakes” column. I’ve hit plenty of popular franchises and mainstream renovations, but as of late, I’ve veered into more obscure territories. That’s where the fun begins, frankly. As this series’ author and a hardcore genre fan, I’ve recently challenged myself to shine a light on remakes that readers might not even know exist. Hence why I’ve yet to examine household notables like The Grudge or Suspiria, yet I’m on my third dive into Roger Corman’s made-for-Showtime collection of lesser-watched remakes.
For today’s edition, I decided to treat myself to a well-liked Corman horror-comedy that stars the late and most certainly great character actor Dick Miller. A Bucket of Blood is a ’50s satire about beatnik culture and pretentious fart-sniffers, which Corman and writer Charles B. Griffith admit was influenced by 1933’s Mystery of the Wax Museum (the German release goes one step further, adding a prologue makes it a direct sequel to 1953’s House of Wax). The remake (a.k.a The Death Artist), under Showtime’sRoger Corman Presents banner, is almost a shot-for-shot remake with added sleaze, but a bonkers marquee read. MADtv’s Michael McDonald serves as co-writer and director, Anthony Michael Hall fills Miller’s role, plus you’ll spy pop-ins from David Cross, Will Ferrell, Jennifer Coolidge, and other familiar faces.
Frankly, the remake’s billing was too juicy to pass up—even with Roger Corman Presents’ track record.
As stated, McDonald’s 1995 revamp for television is essentially a top-to-bottom duplication. The biggest switch comes with generational change: 1950s Bohemians become 1990s Generation X hipsters. Otherwise, characters recite the same lines once uttered by Corman’s cast. McDonald and co-scripter Brendan Broderick (a Corman regular) stay true to Griffith’s original screenplay because, well, it’s that remarkable. Any commentary on the obsessive longing to create something globally adored rings true in any period. All you need to adjust are the costumes and settings, as architecture trends and clothing fads transition.
Hall’s Walter Paisley is a bumbling busboy at an alternative Los Angeles coffee house called Jabberjaw, an admirer of the beat poets and jazz musicians who perform to great applause. Walter hungers to become one of the joint’s anointed geniuses, but lacks any spectacular talents. That’s until he accidentally kills his landlord’s cat, covers it in Plaster of Paris, and passes the “piece” off as sculptural realism. Jabberjaw’s owner Leonard de Santis (Sam Lloyd) swoops in as Walter’s agent, while the beautiful Italian hostess Carla (Justine Bateman) encourages Walter’s newfound career. Poet Maxwell Brock (Shadoe Stevens) welcomes Walter into his circle of sophisticates and luminaries, feeding into the boy’s delusions. But to produce more statues, Walter needs more subjects—dead subjects, that is, to cover in plaster.
The most significant changes intend to inject more desperation, but they hardly feel necessary. Leonard is blatantly motivated by overdue Jabberjaw bills, Walter uses the white, pasty plaster instead of moldable clay, and Walter’s bullied harder this time. Hall’s take on Walter is frustrated and angstier, whereas Miller’s is more starstruck and half-witted—but there’s nothing else, really. McDonald upholds the “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” mantra of remake filmmaking, dragging A Bucket of Blood into contemporary relevance (as long as you had access to Showtime at the time).
Does It Work?
‘A Bucket of Blood’ (1995)
Not to be a Debbie Downer, but in terms of remake justifications, A Bucket of Blood (1995) doesn’t pass the sniff test. It’s the same dilemma as Travis Zariwny’s Cabin Fever (2016). What does your film add to the conversation in terms of modern horror identities and signatures from a new filmmaker? McDonald’s undeniable funnyman chops make him a suitable choice to follow in Corman’s comedy-first footsteps, yet his film is nothing but equally low-budget mimicry. There’s no innovation or evolution, despite nearly four decades between release dates.
Once again, as I’ve written multiple times throughout these remake evaluations, would you choose to go toe-to-toe with an original work? Especially one that’s well-received and praised by Corman’s fans? A Bucket of Blood lacks the extensive special effects of The Wasp Woman, which benefited from advancements in cosmetics, prosthetics, and SFX applications. It’s purely based on cheeky performances, sharp wit, and sardonic takedowns of cultural chest-puffing. McDonald invites comparison by matching Corman’s far superior starting point beat for beat, which leaves audiences with no wiggle room to muster appreciation.
Perhaps, if we’re grasping at straws, you can argue McDonald’s A Bucket of Blood laughs louder at the miserable state of full-of-themselves artistic “disruptors.” McDonald himself plays an interpretive dancer who flails out his rage on stage, while peanut gallery goobers like Cuff (Victor Wilson) and Link (Patrick Bristow) debate each erratic motion’s intent. Corman’s swipes at beatnik performances are more tempered, from outspoken guitarists to orators with rhythm, while McDonald has wide-eyed weirdos playing with toy monkeys or musicians who strip fully nude during violin performances. There’s a more enthusiastic humor about 1995’s recreation of Gen X’s stage obscurities, tipping the horror-comedy scale further away from terror.
The Result
‘A Bucket of Blood’ (1995)
Apologies for the flippancy, but 1995’s A Bucket of Blood gives made-for-television a bad name. From the Jester-ass word precessor font used in the opening credits, you know you’re cooked. McDonald’s second directorial feature (both for Corman) is a technical mess, from jarring editing cuts that cause scenes to rear-end each other, to performances that leave us scratching our heads. Poor Justine Bateman’s Italian accent is as authentic as Papa Johns, while her participation in A Bucket of Blood almost seems like she’s being held at gunpoint off-camera. There’s a novelty to McDonald’s goofball approach in sparse glimpses, but otherwise, amateurishness drowns out any redeemable qualities.
Hall’s version of Walter Paisley is far less intriguing, as his personality builds into commonplace jealousy and anger. Miller’s take is kookier but more engaging, as he hangs on Maxwell’s every word as a literal blueprint to artistic excellence. Hall’s iteration clocks the violence he’s committing with a straightforward deviance that ditches the incredulousness and almost childlike contextualization of Walter’s actions. Miller’s portrayal of Walter as a simple man who yearns for Yugoslavian white wine and peer respect makes you believe he doesn’t see the impropriety of his actions. In contrast, and to a detriment, Hall plays Walter’s breakdown like any jaded creative who craves the spotlight. That’s not to say Hall was wrong for the role; McDonald struggles to tap into the unsettling ambivalence that Corman so easily provokes.
Don’t get too excited about the surrounding cast, either. Mentions of Ferrell and Coolidge are blink-and-you-miss inclusions. Cross has one or two A+ lines about his snobby sycophant’s weird spelling of words (“feeling” with three “e’s”), but he’s hardly in Mr. Show form. Everything is so on the nose, from Sam Lloyd’s prototypical vulture of a manager to the needless inclusion of titillation presumably because Corman couldn’t get away with bare breasts in the 1950s. Even the cinematography can’t help but add to the eye-rolling nature of McDonald’s overdirection, like when Carla tells Walter that Leonard’s eyeing him from afar, so the camera immediately cuts to Leonard, and zooms on his face as he stares intently. Everything’s exhaustively spelled out, like the audience has never seen a movie before.
The Lesson
‘A Bucket of Blood’ (1995)
“Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn’t stop to think if they should.” Yes, I’m quoting Jurassic Park and not Carnosaur despite this being a Corman-focused piece because it’s relevant. Corman’s Showtime series offered a chance to update his catalog for newer audiences, which is a splendid opportunity, but A Bucket of Blood shows how that experiment could go wrong. I firmly believe that a terrible remake can’t tarnish an original’s reputation, but for those who might have seen 1995’s revival first, I mourn your experience. The original is leaps and bounds better—don’t let this remake speak for both titles.
So what did we learn?
● Michael McDonald is yet another comedian who made the leap to horror filmmaking, well before the likes of Jordan Peele or David Gordon Green or Zach Cregger.
● Roger Corman’s criteria for remakes seems to be, “Well, how many boobs can we add?”
● The shot-for-shot remake approach will always be the biggest gamble, and when chosen, it puts a target on your back.
● If you can’t answer at least one golden reason pertaining to remake filmmaking—updating outdated SFX, fitting relevant themes to contemporary scenarios, making over a bad movie into something better, or bringing your unique vision to someone else’s story—maybe you should axe the project.
This write-up pains me because I genuinely regard Michael McDonald as an underrated funnyman of our times. He’s been steamrolled by Austin Powers, killed by Michael Myers, and made MADtv watchable. I tried my hardest to search for the good in his A Bucket of Blood, but the whole project is a futile attempt at pandering to new audiences. Dick Miller’s a legend, and what he brings to Walter Paisley can’t be matched by any actor in my memory. It was going to take a Herculean effort to outshine Corman’s original—McDonald was set up for failure. I don’t say this often, but just pretend 1995’s A Bucket of Blood doesn’t exist because Corman’s 1950s favorite will always be the right choice.
