Lemora

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LEMORA, 1973, directed and written by Richard Blackburn.

During the 1970s, a few notable films overcame the hurdles of a low budget through sheer brutal conviction (THE HILLS HAVE EYES), through an unsettling, dreamlike atmosphere (LET'S SCARE JESSICA TO DEATH), through a merciless demolition of its characters' principles and confidence (RITUALS), through guerrilla filming techniques (GOD TOLD ME TO), through the implications of disturbing concepts (THE BROOD), or even through the irrepressible joy of amateurs who wanted to prove their abilities (PHANTASM).

A favourite of mine, and a film that has never gained the reputation it merits, raised itself through pure style. Richard Blackburn's LEMORA provides a consistent visual scheme, and a consistent mood, that overcome its one weakness: an amateur cast with more enthusiasm than skill. Yet even here, two performances are able to stand out: the naturalistic and convincing work of its heroine, played by Cheryl Smith, and the mannered yet interestingly alien performance of its antagonist, played by Lesley Gilb. Smith is clearly a seasoned actress; Gilb might not be an actress at all, but she does offer a strong, unearthly presence.

"Presence" becomes the ultimate virtue of LEMORA. The photography, the lighting and colour schemes, the music, the constant evasions and implications of the script, give the film a tone unique not only for its decade, but for today. Despite a few unconvincing make-up effects, LEMORA succeeds in building dread, and although it might seem viscerally mild when compared to something like THE EXORCIST, LEMORA carries its own dark fairy-tale spells of uncertainty and mystery. It explains very little: although its antagonist reveals vampiric traits, her actual nature is never clarified. She seems like something pretending to be human, like a mimic or a mechanism; her intentions remain foggy right up to the ending and beyond, which might frustrate certain viewers but which leaves me impressed.

In his commentary on the Synapse DVD, Richard Blackburn cites as an influence on his film Arthur Machen's "The White People," and Mervyn Peake's "Boy in Darkness." Although his film cannot reach the heights of these influences, it does echo certain of their ideas and moods, and in digesting the sources, gains a certain originality of its own. This, in part, is what makes LEMORA strange, perhaps too strange to gain a wide audience, but strange enough to win admiration from those, like me, who love the indefinable, the chimaeric, the neither here nor there that somehow becomes an unforgettable landscape of its own.