Aspiring Artists Should Not Take Lessons From Bucket of Blood

One day several months ago, my parents and I returned home to find my brother Nathan's head on the porch. We had scarcely recovered from our shock when we encountered Nathan's head again, this time attached to his shoulders, as he explained that this eerily lifelike bust was a school project he'd finally toted home from college. Over the next few months, he painted it and left it out on the deck to be weathered by the elements, creating a rugged representation of himself that took first place in the sculpture division of Panorama, an annual Erie art show.

Nathan is a sculptor. Walter, the main character in cheesy 1959 horror flick A Bucket of Blood, is not.

The film, written by Charles B. Griffith and directed by Roger Corman, stars Dick Miller as a nondescript waiter who's tired of feeling like a nobody. When he accidentally kills his landlady's cat, it seems like one more stroke of bad luck for a guy who can't catch a break. Then, something unexpected happens. Some bohemians from the café where he works spy the cat which he has encased in plaster as a cover-up and deem him a great artist. He begins receiving accolades - and demands for a follow-up piece.

The low production values and absurd premise help make this movie too silly to be scary, which is the only way I can stomach horror. Walter is actually a sympathetic protagonist, at least at first, but his lust for acceptance and acclaim brings out the worst in him. The movie also seems to critique the pretentiousness artsy types sometimes possess. Here, they all latch onto this hip new artist with his hyper-realistic sculptures, and one gets the impression that most of them think his work is cool simply because the others do.

While most of the beatniks are presented in a shallow light, Carla (Barboura Morris) has more depth, and she relates to Walter as a friend rather than a commodity - or an oddity. While she may be one of Walter's most ardent supporters, she is also one of the first to realize that something about this "artist" is amiss. Unfortunately, by that time, he has set his sights on her, and he has grown used to getting what he wants. Is her sweet spirit about to be rewarded with a taste of terror?

The story and main characters are engaging, and I also love the wry spoof of the contemporary counter-culture, particularly through the out-there Maxwell (Julian Burton). As a Glenn Yarbrough fan, I was tickled to hear a folk song performed by a man with a remarkably similar style; a bit of research informed me that he was Alex Hassilev - and he'd been in a band, the Limeliters, with Yarbrough.

If I could stomach this movie, I reckon most squeamish folks wouldn't have a problem with it. It's more goofy than grotesque, and it may make you appreciate the true artists in your life all the more.