Stagefright (1987)
Michele Soavi’s late 80’s Italian slasher has got to be one of the most fun entries in the subgenre. A killer wearing a giant owl mask stalks the theatre where a troupe is rehearsing a weird, terrible, doomed musical, ostensibly based on his life and crimes. As their compatriots are slaughtered one by one, the actors really should leave, but between the fact that none of them can afford to lose this job and that the director has locked them all in so they’ll have to keep rehearsing through the night, the only egress is death—by power drill, by chainsaw, by axe, by golly (with apologies to The Mutilator).
This is a film of pure excess—a delightful juxtaposition of 80s slasher exploitation sleaze and classic Italian artistry growing out of a Bava/Argento-influenced giallo style. Cats jump out of places they have absolutely no reason to be, the lighting is more colorful than could ever be realistic, and the actors are all poorly dubbed. Really, I’m having trouble selling just how much fun it all is. Plus, it does actually succeed in the suspense and startle department, all while looking and sounding fantastic.
And I think one of the things I most appreciate about it, coming from the theatre, myself, is its presentation of a theatre group making something bad. Deep down, they must all know how bad, how unsalvageable it is. The director can see it—it’s clear in the disdain with which he watches every absurdity play out on stage, and yet, he keeps trying to make the small adjustments to make it just a bit less awful. The obvious failure that looms is more horrifying in its familiarity than any feathered madman haunting the catwalks could hope to be.
A perennial favorite that never grows old. I’m sure one day, I’ll return to it at greater length – but for now this blurb will have to suffice.