FOR DYING OUT LOUD 666

CRAZY RALPH AIN'T ON THIS DOUBLE DECKER


Ki-ki-ki theme music (I still hear chh-chh-chh), a weathered hockey mask, and Camp Crystal Lake can mean only one thing. Yes, horror icon 'Jason' forever piling up a body count for his part in certainly making today's unlucky date pop-culture famous. So why am I not writing a deserving franchise retrospective for the very day itself? All in good time... But for "the 13th" by way of film, an honorobale mention should go to a virtually unknown and barely-seen-if-at-all picture, for the sole reason of whose title was the very first to use the superstitious name: FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH (1933). While not a horror movie in any way, shape or form, it preceeded Mr. Voorhees by 47yrs. This forgotten, early British talkie is about a London bus on a rainy night, driving down an empty road that suddenly swerves to avoid being hit by a large, toppling construction crane that has been struck by lightning. The vehicle is involved in a terrible crash, and the story flashes back 24hrs (with a rewind courtesy of Big Ben) to the lives of several commuters and how they came to be on their ill-fated ride. Don't be fooled into thinking that this sounds like a total snoozer because of its age. The good pacing and talented actors (already top stars of their day from stage & screen) infact makes for a fine melodrama whose premise has become quite a norm: a gathering of disparate strangers in which we get a portrait of their eclectic backgrounds, see everybody meeting up, and follow the journey right up to the tragedy.

The diverse cast of characters (arguably too many) in 7 vignettes include the cynical bus conductor; his sexy chorus girl wife (played by Jessie Matthews); the energetic school teacher in love with her; a slippery/sleazy blackmailer; a rapid-talking con man; a henpecked husband; his cheating wife; a grumpy businessman desperately following a stock market tip; his elderly ditzy wife who keeps forgetting to buy marmalade; the man's partner; a racetrack bookie; a detective; a florist; a clerk; a dance instructor; and a pair of American tourists amongst still others. It's a potpourri that definitely sounds like an overloaded offering but thankfully doesn't bog down into a bloated bore. The snappy dialogue and action is presented in a Hitchcock-like, pre-film noir, mystery narrative with a blend of humor and sorrow as we are brought to the end's reveal of who survives & who doesn't. I bet this is one film that Quentin Tarantino's style/technique for time-lapsed, interwoven set ups can be traced to. In closing, FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH is a prim & proper slice of pre-WWII English life that wouldn't be complete without impeccable manners, pompous snobbery, and a sophisticated lady casually discussing the always sassy subject of knickers. [Now just imagine those undergarment visuals morph into a bevy of helpless, screaming young women (bra & panties, or topless is optional) trying to flee a machete-wielding madman. If that isn't full circle on this ill-omened day, I don't know what is].