"But if you'd have shot me, you'd be moppin' up my blood now."

Not Corman's Best, But Still Worth-Watching

Venice Beach, Venice, Los Angeles, California, USA

Ray Milland and Diana Van der Vlis in X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes (1963)

Peter Lorre, Vincent Price, Basil Rathbone, and Debra Paget in Tales of Terror (1962)

Spider Baby or, the Maddest Story Ever Told

Jill Banner and Beverly Washburn in Spider Baby or, The Maddest Story Ever Told (1967)

Spider Baby or, The Maddest Story Ever Told

Vincent Price in The Masque of the Red Death (1964)

Dominique Swain and Corin Nemec in Rottentail (2018)

Roger Corman, Susan Cabot, Anthony Eisley, Leo Gordon, and Barboura Morris in The Wasp Woman (1959)

Vincent Price, John Kerr, and Barbara Steele in The Pit and the Pendulum (1961)

I will talk to you of Art, for there is nothing else to talk about, for there is nothing else. Life is an obscure hobo bumming a ride on the omnibus of Art. Burn gas buggies, and whip your sour cream of circumstance and hope, and go ahead and sleep your bloody heads off. Creation is, all else is not. What is not creation, is graham crackers; let it all crumble to feed the creator. The Artist is, all others are not. A canvas is a canvas or a painting. A rock is a rock or a statue. A sound is a sound or is music. A preacher is a preacher, or an Artist. Where are John, Joe, Jake, Jim, jerk? Dead, dead, dead They were not born before they were born, they were not born. Where are Leonardo, Rembrandt, Ludwig? Alive! Alive! Alive! They were born! Bring on the multitude, the multitude of fishes: feed them with the fishes for liver oil to nourish the Artist, stretch their skin upon an easel to give him canvas, crush their bones into a paste that he might mold them. Let them die, and by their miserable deaths become the clay within his hands that he might form an ashtray or an ark. For all that is comes through the eye of the Artist. The rest are blind fish, swimming in the cave of aloneness. Swim on you maudlin, muddling, maddened fools, and dream that one bright and sunny night, some Artist will bait a hook and let you bite upon it! Bite hard - and die! In his stomach you are very close to immortality.

Antony Carbone and Dick Miller in A Bucket of Blood (1959)

Dick Miller and Barboura Morris in A Bucket of Blood (1959)

Julian Burton, Dick Miller, and Barboura Morris in A Bucket of Blood (1959)

Julian Burton and Dick Miller in A Bucket of Blood (1959)

Julian Burton and Barboura Morris in A Bucket of Blood (1959)

Dick Miller

Barboura Morris

Antony Carbone

Charles B. Griffith

A dimwitted busboy at a beatnik cafe passes off a cat he accidentally killed and covered in plaster as a sculpture, prompting a demand for more art that compels him to commit murders.

Roger Corman

A Bucket of Blood

Beats, Artists, and a Sweet Tempered Killer

A Bucket of Blood (1959)

Beats, Artists, and a Sweet Tempered Killer

This is a romp, a riot, and a rebellious ripoff. Most of all it&apos;s rotten, so rotten it&apos;s terrific. It&apos;s a must see, in a way, for anyone into the beats, and into C-grade horror films. 

Is it good at all? Yes, yes! As clumsy as it is, Bucket of Blood has an innovative (if ridiculous) plot. It has an unlikely hero who meets an unlikely demise. It has real poetry, and real hep cat talk (of the lowest form, but hey, show me more fun). It has mood, heroes and villains, a chase scene (on foot), stupid broads and stupid cats and funny situations.

One key to liking this kind of thing is to remember that the filmmakers, even if on a starvation budget, are no idiots. Director Roger Corman most of all. They know they are making a laugh-out-loud send up of horror films, and they know the beat slang is absurd, and they know the plot is crazy, man. So you can have fun with them, and really get a good laugh, and a little chill, and a weird reminder that in some sad sad happy way, this is what it was like in smaller city coffeehouses where Ginsberg never set foot but where Corman and crew did. Even the photography, led by Jacques R. Marquette (of Attack of the 50 Foot Woman fame, quote unquote), is really worth watching.

There is nothing like it.

A dim-witted busboy finds acclaim as an artist for a plaster-covered dead cat that is mistaken as a skillful statuette. The desire for more praise soon leads to an increasingly deadly series of works.

Blu-ray Trailer

https://m.media-amazon.com/images/M/MV5BYjg4YzUyOGYtYTQxOC00MGMzLTk5ODgtZTk3ODllODI3MmRjXkEyXkFqcGdeQXRyYW5zY29kZS13b3JrZmxvdw@@._V1_.jpg

A Bucket of Blood (1959)

Beats, Artists, and a Sweet Tempered Killer

This is a romp, a riot, and a rebellious ripoff. Most of all it's rotten, so rotten it's terrific. It's a must see, in a way, for anyone into the beats, and into C-grade horror films. 

Is it good at all? Yes, yes! As clumsy as it is, Bucket of Blood has an innovative (if ridiculous) plot. It has an unlikely hero who meets an unlikely demise. It has real poetry, and real hep cat talk (of the lowest form, but hey, show me more fun). It has mood, heroes and villains, a chase scene (on foot), stupid broads and stupid cats and funny situations.

One key to liking this kind of thing is to remember that the filmmakers, even if on a starvation budget, are no idiots. Director Roger Corman most of all. They know they are making a laugh-out-loud send up of horror films, and they know the beat slang is absurd, and they know the plot is crazy, man. So you can have fun with them, and really get a good laugh, and a little chill, and a weird reminder that in some sad sad happy way, this is what it was like in smaller city coffeehouses where Ginsberg never set foot but where Corman and crew did. Even the photography, led by Jacques R. Marquette (of Attack of the 50 Foot Woman fame, quote unquote), is really worth watching.

There is nothing like it.

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