It’s not easy being a Roberta Findlay fan.
In an interview that appears on the Blu-ray of The Oracle, Findlay admits that she hates horror movies (“I don’t like them at all . . . George Romero included, he’s terrible!”). She also doesn’t like anyone who likes her horror movies (“They’re all lunatics. If they don’t leave me alone, I tell them that I’ll call the cops.”). Findlay goes on to take not-so-subtle jabs at people who are gay, transgender, or overweight. So Roberta Findlay joins the ranks of people that you never want to share a banana creme pie with. This is fine, because she probably hates banana creme pie and anything else that involves human beings.
In keeping with the theme, there’s not a single minute in The Oracle that feels like it was made by a human being.
It’s Christmas Eve, also known as the perfect day to move into a new apartment. While Jennifer and her husband are tied up with that, a neurotic terrorizer named Farkas—coded as a lesbian with a bizarre pitch-shifted voice—murders a prostitute in a shabby motel room. Then Farkas eats a burger. Meanwhile, Jennifer discovers the Oracle in her new apartment building. The Oracle is a ceramic hand that interprets messages from the dead. Christmas passes. The apartment is supernaturally trashed. Monsters appear. Gore flows freely. Suddenly, it’s New Year’s Eve and Farkas is driving a car on the sidewalk.
In 1985, Roberta Findlay turned over a new leaf. Her adult films like Liquid A$$ets were out, and a new regime was in. So Findlay churned out a handful of disorientating, low-budget horror films that were the 1980s equivalent of her 1960s exploitation work with late husband Michael Findlay. Like The Touch of Her Flesh before them, movies such as Lurkers were sleazy, stylish, and psychologically damaged. From the droning interludes (Blood Sisters) to the misanthropic vibes (Tenement), there was no denying that these movies felt like they were made by someone who would have no problem kicking a puppy. The Oracle started this twilight period in Findlay’s career, and her vocal hatred of the horror genre makes the movie even more fascinating.
Next to William Lustig’s Maniac, The Oracle is the grodiest Christmas adventure that ever crawled out of the NYC sewers. But it’s also compelling. Similar to Findlay’s Prime Evil (her OTHER Christmas horror movie), The Oracle wallows in hopelessness and disorganization. But unlike that later film, it succeeds as entertainment. This is mostly due to Jennifer’s character arc, some gloopy practical effects, and dream sequences that are bathed in green and pink lights. Like the character of Cathy in Findlay’s Lurkers, Jennifer spends the film battling demons of all kinds. Her husband is dismissive and demeaning (“Boy, you look terrible. Why don’t you go back to bed?”), and her allies are killed off by beasties and an axe-wielding Farkas. Jennifer is alone. That despair feels genuine. As the third act swerves towards prime time soap opera territory—like a horror version of Desperate Housewives—the elements smash together in a haunted fugue of neon, histrionics, and literal melted faces. Even when it’s slow, The Oracle delivers on its promise of dour, surrealistic chaos.
There’s a moment in The Oracle when Jennifer watches a TV broadcast of A Woman’s Torment—Findlay’s earlier porn-horror triumph. This is a fictional woman in torment watching another fictional woman in torment, all orchestrated by a real-life woman in torment.
It’s not easy being a Roberta Findlay fan, but I’ll never stop trying.
