The Brain That Wouldn’t Die (1962)
Also known as The Head That Wouldn’t Die. He’s a young mad doctor who has been doing transplant experiments. His father warns him: “Don’t play God! The human body is not a jigsaw puzzle for you to experiment on!” The young mad doctor is supposed to marry his beautiful girlfriend but as he’s driving her to his laboratory in the country, he guns it — pedal to metal. They crash. Her body is burned — but he saves the head. And — are you still with me? — he takes the head back to his laboratory and puts it in a pan attached with telephone cords, and keeps her brain alive. She’s not too happy about this, and yells at his assistant Kurt with the withered hand (it was a botched transplant): “Let me die! Let me die! Let me die!” Oh yes, I forgot, there is a monster locked in the closet constructed from the transplanted body parts of dead people by the young mad doctor, again — ‘like a jigsaw puzzle.’ The monster keeps banging on the closet door because he wants to get out. Things pick up a bit. The young mad doctor (who is very handsome) goes looking for beautiful bodies to attach to the beautiful head of his ex-girlfriend. He finds an exotic dance club (What is that place? Did they really exist in 1962? I do hope so. It’s kind of a strip club, but there are well-dressed couples out on dates). And a stripper/dancer lures him to her makeup room to have sex. But no — no woman’s body is hot enough enough to attach to his ex-girlfriend’s beautiful head. He finally finds a ‘figure model’ who apparently makes a living from inviting men to her studio to take pictures of her in a bikini (again did these things really happen in the 60s?). He takes the ‘figure model’ back to the laboratory and drugs her and kills her, and is just about to attach his girlfriend’s head to the figure model’s perfect body, when the monster in the closet escapes. A description of the monster? Well, sorry — not much thought was put into his costume — it must have been pretty much last minute when they ran out of money — he’s obviously a very tall man wearing a rubber mask with fake eyes attached to it. The ‘monster’ brutally kills the handsome young mad doctor. The head just laughs. End of movie. It’s only 1 hour and 20 minutes but it feels like much much longer. Now I know why every good director tell actors to ‘speed up.’ Actors always think they should act in the pauses. This movie is filled with pauses that are nighmarishly long. And it is in these horrific pauses that the actors think they are acting. You can tell because of the intense looks, or the odd twitch. Sometimes they just stand there staring. But I know that they think they are dong Oscar-worthy stuff. This acting is the true horror of a movie which is all about horror.“What is behind that door?” asks the disembodied head. “Horror that no human mind can imagine” answers Kurt, the servant with the withered hand. “Horror has it’s ultimate, and I am beyond that!” exclaims the head. “There is no horror beyond what is behind that door!” warns Kurt. Horror horror horror. You don’t have to tell me. I watch TV. (You can’t avoid it, what else is there to do now.) And it’s everywhere —corona corona corona!!!!!! —and I just think well, the news, the TV the media, that is our horror. And Trump is right about the media, it’s full of lies. CNN is showing late night documentaries about Ebola. They keep mentioning the Spanish flu (which killed 100 million people, while in Ontario, corona has killed 19) and saying there aren’t enough ventilators — not enough ventilators! — doctors, nurses — are scared for their own lives! They are building giant tents to store the bodies that will pile up soon, soon! Any day now! Not since 911 have we seen such horror! Be afraid, be very afraid. Be afraid beyond horror. Why do they insist on us being so afraid? I spent the first twenty-eight years of life being afraid of being gay. I knew I was, and I knew other people knew I was — because of my crazy hands, my effeminate voice, my urge to be onstage, and my well — general vulnerability. This was my nightmare. I used to buy dirty magazines and then sneak out of the house and throw them in the garbage, surreptitiously — a garbage can far from the house — because I thought that someone might find them and somehow know they were mine. I hated myself. I wrote in diaries like this, saying please please don’t let me be gay. I never touched my penis. I didn’t actually masturbate. I used to rub against the bed. But always the nightmare: I will have to get a girlfriend, I will have to get married. I got one, tried to have sex with her. It was easy. I just pictured my own naked ass when I was screwing her — that’s what really turned me on. I tried everything not to be gay. And then I threw a fork at my girlfriend —or in her general direction — and I knew this had to stop. ‘I am really nuts,’I thought. And so I broke up with her, and I was free. I mean I thought I was free. And I thought my life would change. And it did, drastically, but not quite in the way I expected. One particular fear was gone — but then other fears came in: I’m ugly, and no man will ever want to have sex with me. Because suddenly it mattered whether a man was attracted to me, whereas with women I didn’t care. And I tried to pick up men for a whole year — and only managed to kiss them occasionally — and finally, finally, my therapist seduced me. So the fear of never actually having sex with a man was over. I could do it! But I was stuck with my ugly old therapist — because my straight years had taught me you must at least try and start a relationship with every person you have had sex with. Then I met my true love Glenn. Glenn! GLENN! And he was a gorgeous young writer (I think he works as a receptionist for a homeopath now). But as soon as I got him, I was afraid he would break up with me. And he did. So I started going to the baths, because I figured every time I had sex with a man was the last time. I still have to talk myself out of that one. After 28 years of fear over your own sexuality, you have to talk yourself out of being afraid of everything, still. And I have sort of talked myself out of being afraid of AIDS. No, truth told, I have finally refused to be afraid of AIDS now. (Sorry!) And now Corona?!!! I have to be afraid of that? All the time again? Why? No. I won’t. I just won’t. But more than that —why do you want me to be afraid? ‘For my own good’ — you say? Or is it to control me? That’s why you wanted me to be afraid before. Sorry I can’t do it. I won’t do it. I can’t be afraid anymore. I’ll wash my hands. But I won’t be afraid.
