For a film entitled DEATH BED: THE BED THAT EATS, there’s no doubt that tons of imagery is starting to fill your heads. I’m pretty sure that some of you are thinking back to that gory scene in the original Freddy flick, where the bed violently consumes a young Johnny Depp after he accidentally falls asleep. If not, I’d bet you’re envisioning a sleeper with sharp teeth folding in half and gnawing at the flesh of youthful characters with wild sexual ambition. In both cases, you’d be far from the truth as this film goes a completely different route in delivering a bizarre tale of a murderous mattress.
More reminiscent of an exploitation art nouveau piece, DEATH BED is quite the complex, nonsensical film. Essentially covering a day in the life of the titular flesh-eating furniture, the movie opens to a black screen with the sound of what can only be deduced as being a foley artist eating celery. Get used to it, as this is the inexplicable sound of the bed eating its victims. When the visuals finally appear, the audience is treated to the necessary introductory segment featuring a picnicking couple that has somehow stumbled upon an abandoned estate in the middle of nowhere. Deciding that the extravagant guest house’s bed would somehow make for the ultimate wine-and-grind location, they decide to feast - more on each other than the wine, apples & KFC they’ve brought - right there on the immaculate sheets, only to first have their cuisine, closely followed by their flesh, consumed by the monster.
…and this is only “Breakfast.”
From here on out, the movie unfolds rather poetically. With the majority of the active characters speaking the majority of their lines via inner monologue voiceovers, the film resorts to using the somewhat omnipresent voice of English illustrator and author, Aubrey Beardsley to deliver its messages. Who is this fellow, you might ask. I’d tell you to Google him, but it’s not like anything about who he is is pertinent in the grand scheme of things. The film itself never even directly mentions him by name. Just know that his penchant for the production of dark and perverse art makes him the perfect candidate to be trapped inside one of his own paintings and sentenced to not be directly involved in, but only speak on, the events unfolding right before him. It is this character that tells the asinine and completely irrelevant story of how the bed monster came to be and who delivers commentary for the remainder of the film, including the narration of the montage spanning the bed’s earliest meals.
…and yes, this montage is complete with nudity, orgies, and ridicules of ancient medicine and religion.
Beardsley, who seems to have a love-hate relationship with his roommate, spends the entire film alternating between ridiculing and sympathizing with the bed as he watches the main cast of the film, a trio of indistinctable women, arrive at the residence and get divided and conquered. His commentary is what makes the film truly the obscure marvel that it is. Sure, at times, it is completely nonsensical and sluggish, but the absurdity and pacing of it all is justified by the wit and whim of our friend embedded in the room. The hilarity of his poetic nature and faux English accent keeps things from ever entering the bore zone.
…oh, and then there’s the kills.
Once you arrive at one of the abundant amounts of “attack” sequences scattered throughout the film’s 80-minute run, you’ll once again understand why you’re watching this horrendous movie. Never do you see real any real teeth - or a mouth for that matter. Instead, you’re treated to orangey foam that rises above the bedspread and draws the victims down into a golden-tinted, acidic liquid that eats away at their flesh, all while making biting and chewing sounds. It’s totally magnificent. Just wait until you see the “skeleton hands” moment for yourself.
Despite what you’ve heard thus far, the absolutely most shocking element of the film is the story of how it finally gained a domestic release. Almost a forgotten relic in the history of film, the move was made back in 1977, but writer, director, producer George Barry couldn’t find distribution for his low-budget erotic horror-piece, and eventually forgot he even made it. It wasn’t until over twenty-five years later, when Barry was up late surfing the net, that he stumbled across a post on the discussion boards at www.scarlettstreet.com, talking about his film and was reminded of his own creation’s existence. Allegedly the film had made its rounds amongst the UK pirated film circuits and was an international underground hit. Deciding to give it another go, he finally managed to secure a late-but-straight-to-DVD release in the US in 2003.
Now, while I’ve always thought the film industry and many of it’s workings to be quite coincidental/bizarre/etc., this one takes the cake. For a man, who has no other film credits to his name, to invest and labor in creating a movie and then completely forget about his associated toils and troubles baffles me. When my first feature gets released, regardless of it’s quality, I’ll be screaming about it from the mountaintops, not throwing the master in a box and moving on with life. Shit’s bizarre.
Nevertheless, I’m not going to sit here and say that DEATH BED: THE BED THAT EATS is for everyone. Hell, it’s probably not for the majority of you, but there’s definitely a remarkably enjoyable element to the film. It’s not by any means a fast and flashy film, but in all of its ridiculousness, you’ll be sure to catch a ton of laughs at this horribly produced nightmare of a movie that managed to overcome all kinds of adversity in finding it’s way into the American market for your consumption. Definitely take a bite out of this one. Happy feasting.
…oh and if you aren’t completely sold on how ridiculous of a film this is by me, be sure to check out Patton Oswalt’s take on this film when he accidentally discovered it a few years back.
Deuces.
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