"Man, this is one groovy flick! Can you dig it, it’s about this poor cat who wants to make the scene, man, as an artist, you know, pick up some bread..."

You kids today may think you're cool, but there was a time when being cool was a full-time job, man, and you had to get in the groove and make the scene and so this flick about a killer beatnik artist is as cool as it gets even though it may seem kind of lame these days and so that's why we say...

A Bucket Of Blood (1959).

Man, this is one groovy flick! Can you dig it, it’s about this poor cat who wants to make the scene, man, as an artist, you know, pick up some bread. And the way he does it is far out. It swings, man. It--

Arrghhh! No way can I talk that way for another moment! I give up!

When Renfield, our esteemed editor asked me to cover this film, he gave me entirely too much credit as a "hipster." Yes, I have some memory of the fabulous fifties, having been born during that decade, but the closest I ever got to "the beat generation" was watching Maynard G. Krebs on the Dobie Gillis TV show.

But I am very fond of A Bucket of Blood, and if you’ll allow me to talk, like, square, I’ll be happy to tell you why.

Walter Paisley is timid, self-effacing, and not very bright. I don’t know the source of his name, but it’s certainly a good one, combining the mundane with the garish. He works as a busboy at The Yellow Door, a coffeehouse frequented by "artistic" types. (I had always thought it was in Greenwich Village, although some clues point to California. No matter.)

Walter, amiable but meek, fancies himself a sculptor, but at present he serves the real artists, "carries away the empty cups of your frustration," as the poet amongst them puts it.

Ah yes, the poet. Maxwell Brock is a bulky, bearded, world-weary fellow. As the film opens, accompanied by a solo saxophone, Maxwell scolds his allegedly philistine audience.

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 it is music,
A creature is a creature or an artist.

Within minutes, we’ve been introduced to the principals, all regulars at the coffeehouse, beginning with loser Walter and pompous Maxwell. "Walter has a clear mind;" says Maxwell. "One day something will enter it, feel lonely, and leave again."

There’s pretty Carla, who is kind to Walter. If she’s also somewhat condescending, he can’t detect it. There’s pretentious coffeehouse proprietor Leonard DiSanso, in beret and baton, and rich square people who want to meet beatniks and buy art. We also learn that bistro patrons Art Lacroix and Lou Raby are a couple of plainclothes cops, monitoring the place for narcotics.

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!

Walter is well characterized as he walks home after hours, insecure and brooding. He tries to "kick the can"--and misses! In his flea-sized, cold-water apartment, Walter works with clay, but it’s clear that he has no talent whatever. "Be a nose!" he exhorts a lump of clay, while trying to heat some soup on the stove. He ruins both sculpture and supper, burning himself in the process. Now, comedy writers of the sixties, and alas beyond, continually dredge up the idea that accidental, terrible art can be acclaimed by a misguided public. Happily, not here. No, Walter’s just no good.

But his luck changes. The catalyst? Funny you should ask, but it’s a cat, Walter’s pet cat, Frankie. The sneaky little beast gets himself wedged inside the apartment wall. His owner proposes to free the forlorn feline by cutting the wall with a knife, but – of course – only succeeds in slaying the poor kitty, spearing it in a vital spot. Breaking it out of the wall, Walter sadly beholds the stiff corpse, and is suddenly inspired, (as a swinging lamp in the frame during his decision seems to prefigure Psycho.) Maxwell’s words resonate in his mind.

The following morning, Walter shows the group his sculpture entitled "Dead Cat." It’s life-sized and extremely realistic. It ought to be, as it’s plain that Walter has simply covered the late Frankie, protruding knife and all, with clay!

That evening, "Dead Cat" is on display in The Yellow Door’s foyer. Carla raves. Leonard frets. Maxwell salutes Walter, then gives him an order. There’s a pattern here, as Maxwell and Carla inspire Walter, while Leonard abuses him ("Yeah, you’re a real artist now. Now go in back and scrub down those garbage cans. March now!") Dippy art groupie Naolia flirts with the now-desirable Walter, and presents him with a vial of pills, rousing narc instincts within Lou.

Things are moving now. Lou drops in on Walter as the latter is about to make some pancakes. Examining Naolia’s gift, Lou asks Walter "Okay, who’s your connection … where do you buy your ‘horse?’" The vial contains heroin, and clueless Walter is to come along quietly.

When Lou pulls a gun, Walter freaks. "No! You’re gonna shoot me! Don’t shoot me!" he shrieks, cringing behind his big frying pan. He then catches the lawman by surprise, braining him with the cookware.

(How could Officer Raby screw up thus? What would Sergeant Joe Friday say? "You’re a cop, mister, never mind the uniform, and don’t forget that for one second! Never pull that piece unless you intend to use it, and it’ll never let you down. And keep your guard up no matter how ignorant the scum you’re dealing with! Oh, sure, some may scoff, but one thing you’ll always know that you’ve served the people well." D’oh!)

Mrs. Swickard, the meddlesome landlady happens by, and Walter has to hide the corpse in the rafters until he can chase her away. A pan that Walter uses to catch dripping gore gives the film its title. Although Walter seems truly sorry about Lou’s death, he determines to make the best of it.

Meanwhile, back at The Yellow Door, Leonard manages to drop "Dead Cat" and detect fur under the clay! This explains his discomfort when Walter tells him that his next project is entitled "Murdered Man." But, Leonard sees himself profiting as Walter’s agent.

Carla and a reluctant Leonard go to Walter’s pad to see the piece. It’s quite breathtaking on its pedestal: a life-sized statue with a pained expression and a forehead wound. "It’s hideous and it’s eloquent," gushes Carla. "It expresses modern man in all his self-pity."

Leonard is truly spooked, can’t speak until the figure is re-draped. He’s clearly on to Walter, but willing to cover up for the sake of his own greed. He does ask Walter to make "no more horrible statues," wants the lad to instead try free-form sculpture. He plans to exhibit Walter’s work very soon at a gallery, hoping to cash in swiftly.

By now, Walter Paisley feels he’s made it as "a real artist," and frequents the coffeehouse resplendent in beret, ascot, cigarette in holder and swagger stick. Unimpressed, however, is "Alice the Awful," a flashy, caustic, self-important blonde. Alice is so cruel ("But he’s such an idiot!") that Walter decides to forego Carla’s offer to model for him. He wants Alice, and tells her that he’s willing to pay her fee – twenty-five dollars an hour (good money for the time).

Alice goes to Walter’s place and strips off. Rather coy shots make it clear that she’s naked, racy stuff for 1959. ("Man, if you’re gonna be an artist, you gotta do nudes, nudes, nudes!" advises one of the beatniks. "Will you get them out of here before we end up in night court?" warns Maxwell.) Walter coolly strangles Alice, and, of course, his next statue is that of a female figure wearing nothing but a long scarf about her throat.

After "Nude in a Chair," Walter is widely acclaimed in the group. He holds court at the coffeehouse, sitting in royal repose with cardboard crown and plunger scepter, drinking champagne and flirting with Carla, as Maxwell recites a poem that he composed for the occasion.

...And no one knows that Duncan is murdered
And no one knows that Walter Paisley is born!
Duncan knows, Tuesday’s sunrise knows,
Alley cats and garbage cans,
And steaming pavements, and you and I,
And the nude descending the staircase,
And all such things with souls,
We know that Walter Paisley is born!

Walter, quite drunk, reveals his plans. "I’m gonna make the most wonderful, wildest, wittiest things you’ve ever seen. I’m gonna make big statues an’ little statues, tall statues an’ short statues. I’m gonna make statues of nobodies and statues of famous people, statues of actors and...and poets, and people who sell things on television, and a statue of the mayor, and some opera singers and their intimate friends. An’ everybody will say ‘Walter let me shake your hand; it’s been a real pleasure to have known you.’"

Stumbling home, high on champagne and artist’s glory, Walter replays Maxwell’s lines in his head, and even begins to quote them aloud while passing through a lonely furniture factory where a man works late, cutting lumber with a huge power saw. "Gotta do something before they forget," worries Walter, who then accosts the worker, gets into a scrap, and ends up sawing off the man’s head.

With the addition of a certain grimacing head, there are thus four Walter Paisley pieces featured in the Exhibit of Sculpture when it opens. The coffeehouse crowd turns out, Carla in a nice dress, the men in black tie. (Of course, Maxwell Brock wears sandals with his tux.)

Walter sneaks off with Carla, and proposes marriage. She gently, but firmly turns him down, looking genuinely pained. Naturally, Walter is crushed. "I get it, I see the whole thing now."

But almost instantly he asks "Carla, would you do one favor for me?" his voice so suddenly reasonable that it almost sounds dubbed.

"Just about anything, Walter," she replies with extreme warmth.

"Would you let me make a statue of you?"

Uh-oh! Carla agrees to pose for Walter after the show.

However, examining "Nude in a Chair," Carla notes a very human fingernail protruding through the clay. As she’s confronting Walter, others discover the true nature of the exhibits, and the jig is swiftly up. Walter has explained to Carla just how he made them immortal, and what he can do for her. She flees and he chases her through the streets.

But soon, all the rest are after Walter. As his conscience takes over, the voices of his victims call out to Walter. Well, Lou and Alice at least, not the carpenter and the cat. Walter abandons his pursuit of Carla and instead heads for home.

"What you gonna do now Walter?" asks the ghostly voice.

"I’ll hide where they’ll never find me!" is the reply.

When the mob arrives at Walter’s apartment and bursts in, they find him at peace at last. "I suppose he would have called it ‘Hanging Man,’" intones Maxwell, at the sight of Walter dangling from a noose, his face smeared with clay. "His greatest work." The End.

The film’s director Roger Corman will probably be remembered as the man who brought Edgar Allan Poe and Vincent Price together, thus giving us some of the best horror films of the Sixties. Corman is incredibly prolific as a producer, as a director, and has even given us a few moments as an actor. A stunning number of his associates have gone on to successful filmic careers. But he had his humble beginnings.

Corman’s 1960 film Little Shop Of Horrors, is notorious for being shot in two days (well, somewhere between two weeks and two hours: accounts vary). The tale of a strange boy and his even stranger plant remained a cult curiosity for a couple of decades, whereupon it was successfully adapted into a stage (and later a movie) musical.

But in point of fact, Little Shop was spun off from this even quainter little sleeper of a film, A Bucket Of Blood. The two films shared crew and sets, and even some players. Charles Griffith was Corman’s co-writer and all-around assistant on both films. Like Shop, Bucket is contemporary, but unlike its counterpart, it resonates with the nuances of the short-lived "beat generation." The plot borrows from House Of Wax and The Tell-Tale Heart.

Dick Miller stars as Walter Paisley, and provides an exquisitely nerdy performance. He manages to evoke our sympathy, despite the fact that Walter commits a few out-and-out murders, unlike the ridiculously improbable accidental killings of his Little Shop of Horrors counterpart. The character’s name was so evocative that it became an inside joke. Miller played different men named Walter Paisley in Hollywood Boulevard (1976), The Howling (1980), Twilight Zone: The Movie (1983), Chopping Mall (1986), Shake, Rattle And Rock! (1994), and probably in a few more titles that I’ve missed.

Julian Burton provides a commanding but phony ("I thought you put money down?" "I do, but twenty five thou?") presence as beat poet Maxwell Brock. He plays the role of Dorian Gray’s Lord Henry Wotton, providing misguided justification to the protagonist.

"One of the greatest advances in modern poetry is the elimination of clarity," says Maxwell to a potential patron. "I am proud to say that my poetry is only understood by that minority which is aware." Aware of what? Not anything, just aware! His attitude mirrors that of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Patience character Bunthorne, who is supposed to be based upon none other than Oscar Wilde.

Carla is played by Barboura Morris, also memorable in Corman’s The Wasp Woman. Antony Carbone, also in Corman’s The Pit And The Pendulum, is Leonard, and Jhean Burton portrays Naolia. Do you get the idea that Corman’s unique repertory company is notable for the exotic spellings of their names? It’s as though "Anthony" Carbone’s "h" came loose and bounced into "Jean" Burton’s handle. I haven’t been able to track down the source of "Barbara" Morris’ extra "o", but I’m sure it’s missing from somebody’s name. Bert Convy and Ed Nelson are the cops Lou and Art respectively, and Judy Bamber is Alice the Awful. Bruno VeSota, whom you’ll remember from Attack Of The Giant Leeches, plays an art-buyer with too much money.

It isn’t explained why Walter’s statues don’t explode from the gases of decomposition and really stink out the joint. He never bakes the clay (at least I hope not), but it hardens, just like that play-doh you remember. He must have switched to some kind of acrylic or plaster coating. And surely he did some Norman Bates-type embalming to keeps his subjects from going rotten. But then again, we’re not supposed to think about this sort of detail.

"Maxwell Brock’s" beat poems (presumably penned by Charles Griffith) enliven the screenplay. Along the way, the coffeehouse singer belts out a hangin’ song "The Ballad Of Tim Evans," which I find was not written for this film. It’s an old folk number, recorded at least once by Judy Collins.

Tim Evans was a murderer,
All in his prison cell
And those who read about his crimes,
They damned his soul to hell,
Sayin’, "Go down, you murderer, go down."

A Bucket Of Blood is a sprightly, 66-minute black-and-white effort that doesn’t overstay its welcome. There’s a recent cable-tv remake that I didn’t see. I’ll leave it to someone else to rate that one.

Thanks, Don.  Even though you didn't want to use the lingo, we dig you, baby.  Like this flick is the most and anyone who wants sample the Fifties beatnik scene could do worse than check out this chunk of cool cinema.  LIke, you might find out that a taste for exotic coffees and interest in health foods didn't start with the Yuppies, man.

Article copyright © Don Mankowski