Produced in the UK and originally titled Psychomania—but rechristened The Death Wheelers for American
audiences, the better to capitalize on the popularity of biker flicks—this oddity
blends tropes from half a dozen different genres into a truly unique hybrid. Psychomania is an
action-biker-horror-comedy that also touches on cults, suicide pacts, and the
supernatural. Oh, and demonic frogs, too. In fact, the most bizarre thing about
Psychomania is how well all of its
component parts fuse together; the picture inhabits a parallel universe all its
own, somewhat like Death Race 2000
(1975) or The Warriors (1979), two
other ultraviolent stories that are presented like live-action comic books.
Swaggering Brit Nicky Henson stars as Tom, leader of a UK motorcycle gang
called the Living Dead. Sporting absurd helmets with cartoonish skulls painted
onto the visors, the Living Dead get their kicks terrorizing normal folks with
destructive mischief, often causing fatal accidents just for thrills. Tom is
preoccupied with suicide, largely because his mother, Mrs. Latham (Beryl Reid),
and her mysterious manservant, Shadwell (George Sanders), have some mysterious
connection to the netherworld. Tom is convinced that if he can steal the secret
of his mother’s power, he can kill himself and return to life as an invincible
immortal. Eventually, he does that very thing. Then he celebrates his rebirth
with a series of murders before convincing other members of the Living Dead to
follow his example. The tension of the movie stems from Tom’s quest to persuade
his girlfriend, Abby (Mary Larkin), to kill herself, an overture she repeatedly
refuses. There’s also a throwaway subplot involving the cops who investigate
murders committed by the Living Dead, though the cops never pose much of a
threat.
Psychomania is quite funny,
although the humor is so pitch-black the movie borders on dementia, and the
cool thing about the picture is that it’s less of a horror-themed comedy and
more of a tongue-in-cheek horror movie. The distinction is subtle but
important, since Psychomania is laser-focused
on pushing its grim little story forward. Running a brisk 85 minutes, the movie
is as wonderfully efficient as it is wonderfully nasty. More than anything, the
picture has attitude to burn. Scenes of mayhem are set to acid-tinged
Brit-funk, which suits the campy nature of the narrative. More importantly, Psychomania commits wholeheartedly to
its blasphemous nature—in addition to a comedic suicide montage (!), there’s a
scene implying the murder of a baby just for kicks.
Director Don Sharp frames the
material well with his stylish photography, and screenwriters Arnaud d’Usseau
and Julian Zimet never miss a wicked beat. Psychomania
is immoral and ridiculous, but the playful tone of the piece never wavers. And
if the acting is mostly perfunctory, that’s all to the good, with the
performers subsuming themselves to the diseased overmind of the story in the
same way the characters become supplicants to nefarious forces. As a case in
point, consider the presence of Hollywood veteran Sanders, the urbane thespian
known for playing derisive upper-crust types. This was Sanders’ last movie,
because in 1972 he killed himself and left behind one of history’s most famous
suicide notes: “Dear world, I am leaving you because I am bored . . . I am
leaving you with your worries in this sweet cesspool.” Sanders phones in his
performance, but he can’t completely suppress his signature acidic glee in the
following exchange with the film’s leading man, upon the demise of a supporting
character: After the leading man exclaims, “She’s dead,” Sanders replies, “You
must be so happy.”
The
Death Wheelers: FREAKY
