An unseen terrorist mastermind devises elaborate schemes, communicating with his followers via recording devices and radios. It sounds like something from today’s headlines but I’m describing a 1933 German crime thriller named THE TESTAMENT OF DR. MABUSE. Creepy, exciting, and eerily prescient, it was originally banned by the Nazis who felt Lang was allegorizing the Third Reich and Adolf Hitler in the form of a mysterious, mind-controlling criminal leader.

MABUSE opens in an empty attic reverberating with the deafening sounds of an unseen machine. A man is being hunted by two other men, and narrowly escapes with his life. He places a call to the police, where Inspector Lohmann (Otto Wernicke), about to go the opera, is hesitant to take the call. When he finally does, the hunted man - an informant named Hofmeister (Karl Meixner) - tells him of a huge counterfeiting conspiracy that is being controlled by one man. Before he can tell Lohmann the name, the lights go out and Hofmeister is attacked. Lang shot both ends of the conversation; Hofmeister is plunged into total darkness, and as his terrified screams ring out, the screen lights up briefly three times as Hofmeister fires a pistol.

The investigation into Hofmeister’s subsequent disappearance leads Lohmann to an insane asylum, inhabited by one Dr. Mabuse (pronounced “Mah-booze-eh”). Mabuse hounded Germany in the 1920s spearheading an incredible “empire of crime” that he controlled with his brilliant mind and power of hypnosis. When he plans were destroyed, he went mad, whereupon he was committed to an asylum. Now he spends his days completely silent, sitting in bed with a glazed look in his eyes, scribbling dozens of pages of mad terrorist and criminal plans which could be used to destroy Germany. One doctor makes a startling discovery: a recent jewelry heist is based on one of Mabuse’s ramblings. When he goes to report his find to the police he is assassinated by a group of thugs, working under orders from none other than Dr. Mabuse. Could Mabuse really be controlling all these people through mass hypnosis even from his asylum cell?

I’m going to put forward a theory here, and forgive me if others have made it before. THE TESTAMENT OF DR. MABUSE positions Fritz Lang as the pioneer of modern action and crime cinema. There are thrilling scenes of gunfights, explosions, car chases; all shocking real, especially by the standards of 1933. There are incredible special effects, as in the scenes where Mabuse’s ethereal spirit interacts with other characters. In the grand modern tradition, MABUSE is even a two-sided sequel; the title character appeared in a two-part silent epic DR MABUSE, THE GAMBLER, and Inspector Lohmann previously appeared in Lang’s first sound film, M. Like many of Lang’s movies, THE TESTAMENT OF DR. MABUSE is about criminals and policemen and about the complexity of the morality of the distinctions. Seemingly good men can be driven insane, or hide terrible secrets, while career criminals are capable of great acts of heroism. There is great fear on his part, on the mob being overcome by the persuasive powers of a mad dictator, and a glimmer of hope in the strength of individuals with the will to resist.

If MABUSE was a clear indictment of the rising power of Nazism in 1930s Germany, it still resonates today. Its techniques have been imitated in countless films and television shows: you will see echoes of everything from CITIZEN KANE (in a photograph-to-person dissolve that Welles copied some eight years later in his film) to CSI; a scene in which two detectives analyze a message scratched into a pane of glass could easily star William Petersen and Marg Helgenberger. And Mabuse’s grand dreams of controlling German society through fear, terror, and crime, will bring a lump to your throat. Either society is regressing or Lang was a visionary and MABUSE is a classic. Maybe it’s both.

IF YOU LIKED THE TESTAMENT OF DR. MABUSE, CHECK OUT: THE 1,000 EYES OF DR. MABUSE (1966). For his last film, Lang returned to Germany and returned to the Mabuse character, whose success sparked a whole series of crime films that Lang had nothing to do with.

THE BAD

If The Beatles wanted to make a movie where they ruined all their own songs with horrendous disco-flavored covers, that was their right. They chose not to; instead, they made movies like A HARD DAY’S NIGHT and YELLOW SUBMARINE that used their songs as platforms to tell stories and move audiences. So what the hell gives Peter Frampton and The Bee Gees the right to dress up in The Beatles’ clothes, play The Beatles’ songs, and crap all over The Beatles’ legacy? A movie as bad as SGT. PEPPER’S LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND could have forever destroyed the reputation of a lesser band. Would The Bee Gees like it if a popular contemporary band - let’s say Maroon 5 - made a movie called “Night Fever” that was told entirely through terrible white-man-soul versions of Bee Gee songs?

I’m not a Bee Gees hater. I enjoy most of their music from the disco era. The soundtrack to SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER is an incredible album. “How Deep Is Your Love” is one of my all-time favorite mildly-creepy love songs. But that still doesn’t qualify The Brothers Gibb to play stand-ins for The Beatles, and so it’s no wonder that SGT. PEPPER’S LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND is truly one of Hollywood’s all-time worst.

Frampton - who was indicating his willingness to take bad career advice when he wrote the song “Show Me The Way” - plays Billy Shears, the identity Ringo assumed to sing “With A Little Help From My Friends.” Along with his buddies, Mark, Dave, and Bob (The Bee Gees) they form a new version of the “legendary” Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band that helped end World War I with their jubilant, unifying music. They bequeathed their magic instruments - yes, magic instruments - to the town of Heartland, to forever protect it from evildoers and electronica. While the new Sgt. Pepper’s band is selling out to record mogul B. D. Hoffler (Donald Pleasence), a gentlemen named Mr. Mustard (Frankie Howerd), who drives around in a golden Winnebago controlled by two funk-singing robots and an evil computer, schemes to steal the instruments to, um, to do, something, I guess. This film would confuse and demoralize even our greatest thinkers. Even a pothead couldn’t find deep underlying meaning in SGT. PEPPER, a movie that makes GLITTER look like BATTLESHIP POTEMPTKIN.

As terrible as Frampton and The Bee Gees are - and they are terrible - their badnicity pales in comparison to that of SGT. PEPPER’S many guest stars, who each take a turn flogging The Beatles’ music with their tone-deaf renditions of immortal classics. Pleasance pisses all over “I Want You.” Alice Cooper eviscerates “Because.” Howerd commits a sin against nature with “When I’m 64.” Steve Martin, who plays a similar role in a nearly identical costume in LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS to the opposite effect, made me want to cry while he destroyed one of my favorite Beatles’ tunes “Maxwell Silver Hammer.” And George Burns - GEORGE &$(#ING BURNS! - sings “Fixing A Hole”. I’m using the term “sings” very loosely here mind you. Burns’ phlegmy, monotone performance makes even Leonard Nimoy look soulful.

Because the guys playing Sgt. Pepper’s band are Australian and British when the characters supposed to be all-American, and because they have the acting talent of department store mannequins, there is almost no dialogue in SGT. PEPPER’S. The whole story is told through an endless barrage of these hack Beatles covers. By attaching them to a narrative, and leeching as much literal meaning as possible from them, PEPPER’S gets worse and worse (and weirder and weirder) as it rolls along. At one point a weathervane comes to life (and looks like Billy Preston) and sings “Get Back” while zapping people with his magic weathervane energy. He zaps one girl and informs her “GET BACK LORETTA!” but the girl’s name is Strawberry. She looks at him confused until he realizes that Preston is referring to her, then goes on her merry way.

Strawberry is, of course, named after “Strawberry Fields Forever.” She is Billy’s sweetheart, and pines for him after the band sells out and forgets their roots. Later the pair are reunited after Billy has been shocked with 10,000 volts of electricity and knocked unconscious, and she sings “Strawberry Fields Forever” to him. The line goes “Let me take you down cause I’m going to/Strawberry Fields.” So, what, is she is going down to herself? That sounds a little too dirty for a Beatles song.

In the worst example of how poorly these songs work in cinematic context, Barry Gibb sings “A Day In The Life” after one of the other characters in the film has been killed. The other Gibb brothers watch as Barry wanders their estate singing a mediocre rendition of the John Lennon classic. When he gets to the line “I’d love to turn you on,” he kneels beside Robin and Maurice and sings it right to them as if professing his love. Since when was “A Day In The Life” about incest?

Eventually all the villains are revealed to be in the employ of Future Villain Band, played in a drug-addled stupor by Aerosmith. SGT. PEPPER’S actually expects us to believe that the greatest evil force in the world is Steven Tyler and Joe Perry. Hm, on second thought, that’s not as outlandish as it first appeared. They did perform one of the lamest movie anthems of all time, "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" (Remember when they did it on the Oscars and Tyler didn't realize he was on camera and was spitting all over the place?  Awesome).

Whatever your personal, political beliefs there is one thing everyone can agree on. And that is that SGT. PEPPER’S LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND is a dreadful, awful film; the filmic equivalent of a bad case of the runs. In other words, poop everywhere.

INSTEAD OF SGT. PEPPER’S, CHECK OUT: SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER (1977), a truly great movie that is way better than its reputation as “that flick where John Travolta dances.” But don’t see it on TV; you need the uncut version (the recent DVD is a good place for it) which features all sorts of language and content that you never get in the neutered cut.

THE UGLY

THE WARRIORS is a dark vision of New York City overrun by vicious gangs. Eight men in a gang called The Warriors are wrongly framed for a murder in The Bronx and then try desperately to return to their home turf in Coney Island. So naturally the film ends with... a soft rock cheese ballad by The Eagles’ Joe Walsh? Long before Walsh’s nasal falsetto fills your ears, THE WARRIORS has proven itself a confusing, campy treat.

A weird gang leader named Cyrus (Roger Hill) calls all the gangs of New York City to The Bronx for a proposal: continue a citywide truce and work together to take over the city from the cops. He repeatedly shouts “Can you dig it?!?” and the thousands of young men in attendance cheer and raise their fists to indicate that, yes, they can indeed dig that. But just when everyone’s digging on Cyrus and having a good time, a long-haired guy named Luther (David Patrick Kelly) shoots Cyrus, and blames it on The Warriors, and somehow everyone digs it. Nobody but the The Warriors saw Luther shoot Cyrus? Everyone simply accepts the ramblings of a bleary-eyed strung out junky with a bandana tied around his head?

The Warriors have to slip past loads of angry gangs on their way back home to Brooklyn. Each gang has its own hilarious gimmick. One dresses in facepaint and baseball uniforms, wielding wooden bats. Another hangs out in the subway, wearing striped shirts, overalls, and roller-skates (what sort of theme is that?!? “Don’t mess with us! We’re the Can’t Dress Ourselves Gang!”). The main gang searching for The Warriors are The Riffs, an all-black gang that dresses in all-black and whose leader looks a lot like MC Hammer. He’s frequently shown in close-up, receiving updates on the Warriors exploits. If you watch THE WARRIORS, I encourage you to shout “Please Hammer! Don’t hurt ‘em!” at him each time he appears and orders retribution.

Even the Warriors have silly uniforms: a brown leather vest, worn shirtless, with their name and insignia on the back. There is something very homoerotic about these guys - not that there’s anything wrong with that. The Warriors constantly call each other “fags” when one does something the others don’t like, but no one seems to acknowledge the inherent flamboyance of their outfits and behavior. Not surprisingly, when a girl is thrown in with The Warriors, only one of their rank seems even remotely interested in her. Most are upset that the boys club has been ruined.

Maybe in 1979 this movie seemed like a terrifying view of New York’s future. Granted, no one probably feared the coming of the Roller Derby gang, but THE WARRIORS, shot on location, looks completely different from the city I know. New York has its share of problems now, but they bear little resemblance to those of the late 1970s. Instead of anticipating the horror, THE WARRIORS now acts as a museum piece. Its dire warnings seem just as foolish as 1950s science fiction about the dire threat posed by giant nuclear ants. Heartfelt, dated premonitions of dystopia often develop into camp, and THE WARRIORS is an unlikely but perfect example.

Absurd villains, flamboyant heroes, outdated cautions, what more could you want? THE WARRIORS is funny now, and will likely only get funnier with age. Can you dig it? I think you can.

IF YOU DUG THE WARRIORS, CHECK OUT: THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW (2004), the modern version of museum-piece New York apocalypse, full of rain and snow and wolves.