William Shatner. A name that echoes across galaxies as a beacon of sci-fi optimism, he has long since cemented his status as a living legend of the fantastical. But the Star Trek universe is not where my interests lie; those will never need a shoulder ride to stay visible above the wall of media indifference.
My concern, my mission (amount of years TBD), is to make sure that the horror stuff–Mr. Shatner’s horror stuff–remains visible and loved.
For the return of Drive-In Dust Offs (get out those kazoos and streamers), I’m looking at the first film in what I’m right now dubbing The Shatner Plaidology: Impulse, an oily 1974 exploitation flick from director William Grefé (Stanley) that kicks it off in grand and greasy fashion. This is peak Shatner.
Comparable to his work as James Tiberius Kirk? Absolutely, I say, and then some. In Impulse, Shatner is no longer shackled by the restrained tenure of playing a space captain on TV and is allowed to spread his wings as a psychotic real estate conman who killed his mom’s lover with a sword and now spends his time bilking widows out of money before killing them. I know, you’ve heard it before.
That wasn’t a spoiler, by the way; the film opens in black-and-white on a suburban bungalow with a live radio report about MacArthur’s occupation of Japan. The camera pans to a single mother drinking and making out with her new boyfriend on the couch. As the drunken boyfriend slobbers on and overpowers the mom, her nine-year-old son Matt stabs him in the back with his dad’s sword, and when the boyfriend turns around and comes after him, Matt stabs him in the stomach, leading to his death and Matt’s introduction to insanity. Roll credits!
30 or so years later we meet grown up Matt Stone (Shatner), long released from the happy hospital and plying his polyester charms on every available and wealthy widow in Florida. As the opening credits unfurl, we watch Matt flirting with a belly dancer, who turns out to be his girlfriend.
Well, his brand new girl anyway; his soon to be ex Helen (Marcie Knight–Stanley) spies him with the dancer, and a heated argument in her car leads to her slapping him, which leads to him snapping and strangling her. When Matt realizes what he’s done, he drops her and her car in the bottom of a lake, all the while chewing his pinky nail as he did in childhood in a fit of remembered trauma. (This is the start of the Shatner Sweat; and outside of the roasting of Mark Preston in The Devil’s Rain, the end.)
Next up we find our protagonist Ann (Jennifer Bishop–Mako) and her part-time antagonist daughter Tina (Kim Nicholas–Black Sunday) sort of enjoying each other’s company at breakfast as they snap back and forth before Tina heads out the door for school.
When she does, she plants herself in the middle of the road and is almost flattened by Matt, naturally enraged by this crazy girl blocking his car and looking for a ride. After she hops in this stranger’s U-boat, she has him drop her off at the graveyard where she talks to her dead dad. (No need for a credit. Yet using the space. Pad much?)
Matt meets Ann when he stops by the gift shop she owns for cigarillos; soon he is wooing her and trying to get in Tina’s good graces, who isn’t having it. The thorn in Matt’s side is Julia Marstow (Ruth Roman–The Baby), Ann’s older best friend who’s very nosy; Matt needs to appear as the doting family man to avoid suspicion. And just when he thinks he has that under control, his old partner Karate Pete (Harold Sakata–Goldfinger) tracks him down and wants in on the grift.
Will Ann somehow see the truth about Matt before it’s too late? Or will she just let Oddjob take care of some necessary business?
Even if it didn’t have Mr. William Shatner, Impulse would offer enough weird charms as a greasy entry in Florida exploitation to satisfy. But it does have him. It really has him. This is the film to measure all Shatner performances against, and you can take that with any amount of sauce you want, or don’t. My love for his onscreen work–especially in horror–is genuine and real.
As I mentioned, this was the beginning of the Shatner Plaidology, which was followed by The Devil’s Rain (‘75) and Kingdom of the Spiders (‘77), two of my favorite films of the ‘70s, period. And the films really are of a piece, at least to a kid who grew up as Trek was already moving from reruns to the cinema. Rain and Spiders have long been in my upper echelon, and it wasn’t until recently that I finally caught up with Impulse. Oh boy.
Hard-ish data: Impulse was produced for $250,000, and it turned a profit likely due to the name recognition of Shatner rather than anything provocative or overly competent on screen. Shatner was offered the job in the street by the other William, and accepted as there was to be compensation for services rendered. Grefé had long made Florida his home, and cranked out hits like Stanley; there was no need for Tinseltown to interfere with his vision (and/or profits).
Enough about the business side, this is art–there’s a good thriller here with tighter editing and without Shatner, but we get a great one because of him even with some flabby sections; basically, if he’s on the screen, it’s impossible to ignore him and would you want it any other way?
Grefé along with DP Edmund Gibson (Sometimes Aunt Martha Does Dreadful Things) manage a couple effectively staged scenes to hold the attention of non-Shatnerites, especially the opening with little Matt and mama’s new fella (William Kerwin-Two Thousand Maniacs!); it’s chillingly shot from Matt’s point of view to convey the terror alcohol and adults combined unleash on children.
As for the weird, the script by Tony Crechales (The Killing Kind) offers up ascot asphyxiations, weiner-on-balloon assaults, car/pedestrian chases through car washes, hangings, letter opener openers, and fittingly, ending with more swordplay. The dialog dies with most of the actors but Sir Bill inhales it all, rolls it around his gullet like a fine cigar, and exhales a smoke storm of emotion on anything that moves.
He’s a very anxious fellow in Impulse, yet so much more. Well, mostly sweaty, and for some reason in the finale he’s given zombie pancake makeup to make him look scarier, or perhaps iron-deficient. He’s also hilariously petulant while he waits for Julia to open her safe. (Props to Christopher George’s spiritual asthmatic twin Ruth Roman for another great turn.)
And angry above all. Mr. Shatner takes the antagonist role as seriously as he’s done with his hero roles; perhaps that’s a base level that most people are uncomfortable with. Picture the wildest Trek moment you can think of from him, and then stretch and amplify that for a hundred minutes or so; that’s your starting point.
Where does he go? He plays Matt in a manic mode as the tortured kid, but appears to have shaved some years off his child counterpart and gives us a six year old, more keen on crying and stomping than offering any kind of window for sympathy. From there, Matt becomes a whirling polyester demon who sucks everything into his orbit and leaves unpaid motel bills and nonexistent properties in his wake. William Shatner pulls beats–very big, John Bonham fucking beats–that I’ve never seen him conjure before or since. I believe Mr. Shatner, at the time of this 12-day lensed shocker (!), may have been under a certain amount of duress. He may even have invented a couple new facial expressions.
He is a very big reason why I love the movies; realism is great when appropriately applied, but the Shatner Plaidology is only as big as his characters. Matt Stone. Mark Preston. Rack Hansen. One villain, two heroes, paving the way for your Kurt Russells and Bruce Campbells to remind people it’s called the fantastic for a reason.
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[Editor’s Note: Want to read more of Scott’s thoughts on Shatner’s “Plaidology”? I highly recommend his book: A Cut Below: A Celebration of B Horror Movies, 1950s–1980s]
Impulse is available in a 2-Disc special edition Blu-ray from Grindhouse Releasing.
Next: Read Earlier Installments of This Series!