As morning breaks, Steckler gives his viewers a moment to absorb what they have seen by inserting some early morning shots grabbed on the fly. In his commentary, Steckler speaks of his attraction to photographing little poetic moments of reality that he's unlikely to remember otherwise and which others might never see otherwise, moments that have the impact of professional still photography. These shots are a perfect illustration of what he means and other similar moments are to be found in his other films as well.
Jerry wakes up late and, after a brief talk with Harold, who’s still under the hood trying to get his heap of junk running. (Shall I stretch the metaphor to recall that Jerry was himself "under a hood" during his own misadventure? Maybe not.) Either way, Harold returns his “kiz” and Jerry drives over to Angie’s house, where he finds Madison grilling burgers and his Angel sunbathing by the kidney-shaped pool. She's forgiving of his actions but remains “a little mad” about the way he acted. Jerry admits to some confusion about his actions on his own part. When Angie admits “I sure would like to know what happened after I left,” she raises a parasol into frame and twirls it, reigniting the hypno-whirl in Jerry’s mind.
Steckler remembered this being a spontaneous decision, prompted by the presence of the parasol at the location, and its incorporation into the scene has an eerie, nightmarish logic that's purely visual. When the parasol is lowered, Angie has become Marge. Jerry starts to strangle her—and only Angie’s mother’s scream and Madison’s rush to her defense prevents Jerry from strangling Angie herself to death. In an editing toggle well ahead of its time, obviously anticipated by Steckler during filming, Marge and Angie flash in and out of his subjective perceptions. Madison succeeds in breaking his death grip and the spell clouding his mind, and Jerry—shocked and ashamed of his own behavior—flees the scene.
Needing a location that would reflect Jerry's growing sense of loneliness and isolation, Steckler opted to take his minimal crew to the original Angel’s Flight Railway incline at 351 S. Hill Street in the Bunker Hill district of Los Angeles. It had previously been used in such films as THE INDESTRUCTIBLE MAN (1956) and the aforementioned NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES (1948). Steckler could recall no conscious reason for shooting there; it was just something he wanted to do, but since he likely had the latter film in mind, the location would have followed, if only subsconsciously. Also, if we consider Jerry's term of endearment for Angela, his “Angel” has indeed taken flight from him (or rather, he from her) and the location externalizes her with a sad and lonely space he can inhabit. Angel's Flight ceased operations in 1969—a parallel of sorts to the seedy run-down majesty of the Nu-Pike. Quietly accompanied by the sound effect of an egg-beater to suggest the rollercoaster-like ascent and descent of the railcars, and a spiritual called “Roll On,” it’s a haunting, fugue-like moment of penitence and respite in Jerry’s nightmare.
While leaving the location, Jerry happens to overhear a transistor radio report of the Hungry Mouth murders and the ongoing police search for the killer. With the movie’s energy now on the brink of failing, it returns to the Nu-Pike where we are treated to Carol Kay’s infectious twist number, “The Shook-Out Shake.” Though it’s hardly the film’s best choreographed sequence and offers no thematic support of the narrative, it’s certainly the picture’s most catchy, memorable song and its best bid for a hit.
The showgirl Stella pays a visit to Madam Estrella, showing her the newspaper headline about the murders of the two dancers and slyly mentioning that she saw Marge running out after a consultation the night before. She asks Estrella what she foretold for her, and she replies, “Nothing—because she wasn’t here last night!” After casually mentioning that she has a date tonight, Stella just as casually mentions to Estrella: “If I didn’t know you better, I’d almost say you had something to hide”—not realizing she’s thus signed her own death warrant. Ditzy showgirl.
Terri Randal’s scat-like “Choo-Choo-Cha-Boochie” is the next musical number, performed solo, without dancers needing additional choreography. Something in common regarding all the on-screen musical performers: they all lip-synch their songs faultlessly. Randal does a particularly good job with tongue-twisting lyric and she appears to be the only artist in the movie whose song made it to record—not this one, but rather the 45rpm single “It’s Incredible” b/w “Mixed-Up Zombie Stomp,” both composed by Libby Quinn (Elizabeth Q. Greene) and released on the REL Recording Company label in 1964.
“Well, if you really must know what happened behind those curtains, why don’t you go behind them?” she challenges him, sensibly.
At this point, the camera adopts Jerry’s POV as he approaches and parts the curtains, once again revealing the spinning Hypno disc. His senses are flooded with images of Estrella compelling him to obey and her recent meeting with Stella, who now must be destroyed.
It reads "Made in Hollywood, U.S.A."
THE INCREDIBLY STRANGE CREATURES WHO STOPPED LIVING AND BECAME MIXED-UP ZOMBIES!!?, whose very title seems astonished (if not baffled) by its 81-minute appendage, has outgrown its reputation as a bad film and demands to be regarded and discussed more seriously. A snapshot of American pop sponteneity, as it briefly existed during the first surge of the French nouvelle vague and on the cusp of the British invasion, it stands out today as a master class in low-budget technique. It also strikes me as a powerfully confessional, autobiographic, and defiantly individual work and—despite these lofty accolades—one of the most ebullient, entertainingly accessible examples of bizarre cinema we are likely to ever see.
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