Category Archives: Review

Not Accepting a Life You Don’t Deserve – X

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So, starting this blog, it wasn’t my intention to be a ‘journalist,’ staying abreast of and giving my opinions on the most current developments in the genre, and thus I’ve focused on older movies which I’ve found interesting, or which I’ve felt deserve some more attention. But today, for the first time, I’d like to write about something relatively new, something still in cinemas (it actually just opened a week ago where I live), something I just got to see and loved: Ti West’s X. Now, I’m aware that I’m late to the party – it opened about 6 weeks ago in the States and a lot of ink has already been spilled on it, but I really liked it and I’ve successfully avoided reading any reviews so I could give my thoughts untainted by other opinions. I can’t promise, therefore, that those thoughts are novel, but if its characters can be so insistent on getting what they want, I can excuse myself for devoting some bandwidth to this today.

X (2022)

Especially given the fact that this is still a new release, be forewarned that herein lie spoilers.

In short, the film follows a group of young, aspiring pornographers into rural Texas circa 1979, where unbeknownst to the elderly couple from whom they’re renting a farmhouse, they plan to make a “really good dirty movie,” thus kicking off their respective futures of wealth, comfort, indie cinema, and fame. However, of course, this being a horror movie, they’ve come to the wrong farmhouse, and said elderly couple, driven by a resentment of the young flaunting what they feel age has unfairly stripped away, set upon them in pretty brutal fashion. It is a playful, gory, sexy, and surprisingly emotional outing, and it is also a satisfyingly cohesive piece, held together by the confluence of hopes, dreams, and flesh.

I think comparisons to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Boogie Nights are inevitable, justified, and limiting. It’s probably impossible to hack up young people in such gorgeous southern heat without bringing Hooper’s film to mind (and at least one sequence, in which Maxine is filmed looking through the screen door of the house from deep down the dark interior hallway before tentatively venturing inside, seems to be a direct visual nod to Pam in Chainsaw doing the same). That said, X has a totally different character than the earlier film. Whereas Tobe Hooper’s classic presents America as a pessimistic nightmare, West offers, in spite of the plentiful blood and guts, a disarmingly hopeful tone. This is a film explicitly about the American dream, and it is peopled with dreamers, chasing their own respective stars. Some have been soured by dreams that didn’t come true, and have thus, bitterly, turned to violent cruelty, but the film as a whole retains a rare and sincere optimism. And even the villains of the piece, who do some awful things, are sympathetic in their way.

This essentially humanist take on a group of young people, enjoying their own and each other’s bodies, unconcerned with society’s judgment, chasing success, does bring to mind Anderson’s opus of the porn industry at the turn of the 70s and the 80s, particularly in terms of both films’ central characters’ pursuit of stardom and their tendency to tell themselves in the mirror just how much of a star they are. But Boogie Nights doesn’t feature any eyes being stabbed out, nails through unshod feet, heads being chomped by swamp gators, arterial spurts (though it doesn’t lack blood – anytime a character is wearing all white, it just seems like something bad is destined to happen), pitchforkings, axings, or crushed heads, so that’s something different. Still, another similarity of the two films is their bravura cinematic style and their use of an ill-respected genre (adult film) to lovingly showcase independent filmmaking behind the scenes.

In further contrast to Chainsaw, which moves from a place of sinking dread to a point of sustained, shrill insanity, truly horrific to endure, X is perhaps closer to an 80s slasher, full of sex and violence, but ultimately made to entertain in a way Chainsaw seems unconcerned with. X can startle sometimes with some fun jump scares, builds suspense well and is playful with setting up and denying expectations, has great gory practical effect work, and is exciting, engaging, and even occasionally scary, but while it has thrills aplenty, it doesn’t exactly horrify (and I don’t think this is a failing – like the filmmakers within the movie, I think West really just wants to show you a good time). But neither, really, (in my opinion) did any of the Friday the 13th movies and that doesn’t mean they aren’t a hoot. Also, like an 80s slasher, it is preoccupied with sex, even featuring killers hunting the young explicitly for their sexuality (an easy read of many Reagan era “bodycount films”) but here there is a significant difference.

While films such as Pieces (1982), Blood Rage (1987), or Nail Gun Massacre (1985) may feature gratuitous nudity and a killer somehow obsessed with or haunted by sex (and can be fun in their unapologetically exploitative fashion – I certainly don’t mean to disparage them by comparison), X is actually about sex in a way they are not and, therefore, nothing here is gratuitous. Rather, it is essential to the story, to the thematic, to the emotional arcs of the characters. It is certainly at the core of The Farmer’s Daughters, the film within a film that has brought them to this ill-fated farm.

As experienced sexual performers, Maxine (Mia Goth) and Bobby-Lynne (Brittany Snow), both of whom presumably have been working as strippers for some time but have never made a film before, are defiant in their sexuality, in embracing and enjoying it and the work they do, unashamedly and proudly. Jackson (Kid Cudi), having filmed his first scene, feels he’s found his calling, standing before the window, naked and beaming. Finally, Lorraine (Jenny Ortega), the sound technician and girlfriend of RJ (Owen Campbell), the director of the Farmer’s Daughters, initially uncomfortable in this company, finds herself called to participate, allured by the inspiring sexual freedom, the infectious positivity, and the sense that they are, in fact, making something good that she wants to be a part of. This leads to a telling point of conflict with RJ, who does not want her in the movie, casting doubt on the possibility of actually being so free of hang ups as the group claims.

On the other side of things, Pearl (also Mia Goth, in heavy old-age makeup) and Howard (Stephen Ure), the old couple who are unknowingly providing the setting for this on-location shoot, have their own sexual hang ups to wrestle with. Their relationship is loving, but physically distant, and that distance takes a heavy toll on Pearl. Due to his heart condition, Howard is unwilling to approach intimacy, though he is apparently willing to occasionally chain up attractive young drifters in the basement to satisfy Pearl’s needs, or blow interlopers away with his shotgun. Pearl is pitiable in her physical loneliness, frail and desperate for affection, for touch, to be seen and wanted. It is creepy and invasive when she takes an opportunity to brush against Maxine’s uncovered ribs, even more so, when she strips down and climbs into bed with her as she sleeps; and the whole naked dead guy locked up in the cellar is certainly not ok – but she is really not unsympathetic and the film does not demonize her or present her as horrific merely by virtue of her age or the fact that she still has sexual desire.

The whole film turns on Maxine’s determination to parley her youth and beauty and sex into the life she dreams of and Pearl’s assurance that, “It’ll all be taken from you. Just like it was from me.” There is a bitterness turned violent in Pearl’s assertions, but also a wistful sadness that seems rooted in a life hard lived, in countless tragedies, failures, and disappointments that have atrophied the spirit. There is really nothing left for Pearl to lose and if she can find some satisfaction in the visceral execution of the young, in the physical satisfaction of bloodlust, if, covered in blood, she can finally dance again, following the ever present TV preacher, why should she accept a life she does not deserve?

Maxine (who, in a coda, we learn has a strong tie to said preacher), delivers the same line. She is young now, and strong, certain in the righteousness of her desire, the drive of her body. When she makes it through the night, doing what she has to do to survive, ultimately ruthless in overcoming her octogenarian assailants, her bloody victory inspires. Two dreams clashed and in the end, the one that has not yet gone sour triumphs. Maxine driving off into a glorious sunrise, followed by the comic epilogue of police investigating the blood drenched scene the next day, cements the hopefulness of the ending. For a very, very bloody flick, featuring killer alligators, broken dreams, and, one assumes, sex crimes in the basement, it is a really upbeat note to end on.

And past that, the whole film is just fun. Good editing is often invisible, but West fills his film with really showy cuts and absolutely beautiful shots, relishing the vibrancy of youth, nature, sun, sweat, and enticing danger (an overhead shot of an alligator effortlessly floating towards an unsuspecting skinny dipper typifies the balance of beauty and threat on display here – such a balance bringing us right back to Chainsaw – it’s really hard to escape).

From moment to moment, the film delivers. The comedy lands. The scenes filmed for the Farmer’s Daughters, though they play on a stereotype of cheesy porn dialogue, are coyly seductive with a real, tactile sensuality. And it does have some scares that work, all adding up to a tremendously satisfying, entertaining, and even touching bit of horror cinema. At the end of the day, it is a fun body count film, but one not without heart, and not without a mind at work.

Keeping the Wall Wet – my week in horror

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A core image of Jhonen Vasquez’s hilarious, disturbing, endlessly creative comic book, Johnny the Homicidal Maniac has always stayed with me. At one point, an intrepid surveyor is uncomfortably interviewing Johnny (or just “Nny” for short) about some local murders and notes that the police suspect a girl may have been killed by a vampire, having been totally drained of blood. This doesn’t end well for this interlocutor as Nny homicidally ejects him from his home, shouting how he never drank the blood, but he has to “keep the wall wet.”  See, there’s this wall, inky black in the monochromatic comic, that he continually has to coat with fresh blood as the color changes when it dries and that just won’t do to keep the Lovecraftian, tentacled horror contained within. Eventually, with Nny incapacitated, said beastie does in fact escape, wreaking havoc, but that turn of events wasn’t what’s kept it in my mind all these years. Rather, it always somehow felt like a metaphor about art, about the creative drive: the obsessive impulse to create, to produce, to perform – to satisfy a cruel, exhausting necessity. Sometimes, even when you’re totally burned out, when you lack inspiration, when you don’t even want to, you just have to keep the wall wet.

Which brings me to today’s post. I try to really put some degree of thought into what I’m going to discuss each week, but it can occasionally be difficult to settle on a topic to delve into. But in the interest of not letting that wall get dry, today, I’d just like to run through the horror content I’ve consumed this week. In a strange way, I‘m almost embarrassed that there isn’t more to report – I’m on a few horror groups on Facebook where some fans seem to watch at least one horror flick a day, and sometimes three or four – that’s a schedule I just can’t keep up with (life is pretty busy), but hey, I’ve got a few things here worth mentioning. These will all be first impressions, and some may be fairly short, but I hope to light upon some interesting thoughts along the way. Let’s see if I do.

100 Best Horror Blogs

First off – here’s a cool development. I’ve been listed on Feedspot’s 100 Best Horror Blogs and Websites (in the 69th position). I don’t know how the determination was made, but I’m honored to be in some great company, along plenty of sites that I occasionally visit.  With any luck, that might bring a few new people to these pages. Here’s hoping.

Two Short Films

Another first this week – I was contacted through the blog by a filmmaker who wanted to share her horror short, Mary, available currently on Vimeo. I can’t promise to promote everything that I ever get sent, but I was honored to have someone reach out.  Sometimes I feel like I’m throwing words out into a void every week and I’m happy that someone might find my output and want to share their own with me.

Mary (2022)

So, Jo Rou and Dan Riodan’s short presents an insurance agent, Rich, visiting an elderly woman (sharing the name of his mother, who recently passed) to discuss features of her plan. Taking place on the first anniversary of his mother’s death, this visit stirs up his deep feelings of guilt and, in turn, frustrated defensiveness and resentment. I think the emotional core of the piece lands – both his self-recrimination at having abandoned her to a home, and the way he felt boxed in by the burden of responsibility. This meeting with an alternatingly sweet/creepy elderly woman veers into a nightmarish mode wherein he is tormented by her saccharine assurances that he must have treated his mother very well and is taunted by her accusations of his failings.

Is this Mary some kind of Greek fury, haunting him for the blood crime of matricidal neglect? Is this all in his mind, this episode only triggered by the reminders of his mother which seem omnipresent in Mary’s home? This narrative question remains unanswered as this is more of a mood piece. I would say that some of this really worked for me (the simple, frustrating, guilt-ridden drama of the situation), and some elements (the more directly ‘horror’ based) didn’t quite click (there was an exaggerated stylization that occasionally distanced), but as a whole, I think it’s an effective, sad little film. And it’s only 13 minutes long, so maybe check it out.

The Strange Thing about the Johnsons (2011)

This second short, Ari Aster’s (of Hereditary and Midsommar) film school thesis, was recommended following my post last week on creepy kid movies. Promoting that blog entry, I’d asked about people’s favorite creepy children and one person responded with Isaiah, the son from this film. To be fair, this takes a different spin on ‘child’ as it is not about youth, but rather being-a-child-of-a-parent (a feature shared with Mary above). It’s on Youtube, so I gave it look.

Whooo-boy – this is one difficult watch. It takes a turn for “horror” late in its run time as there are some direct acts of violence, but throughout, there is a weight of dread, of being trapped – both by an abusive family member and by one’s own feeling of complicity with that abuse – the guilt and horror of what one has done, mixed with the terror of not being able to escape. This could be the material for a standard drama of familial abuse, but it distinguishes itself by reversing the players, presenting an adult son who sexually, physically, and emotionally abuses his father. Cringingly uncomfortable from the very beginning, like something out of a Todd Solondz film (Happiness, Welcome to the Dollhouse, etc.), Aster’s short builds to awful crescendos of brutality, terror, and grief. It’s a hard film to recommend, but it is interesting to see a talented filmmaker’s early work, and however unpleasant to watch, I think it’s doing what it set out to do.

Aster said that the impetus to make it was a discussion between himself and friends about the most taboo topics they could put into a film: “We were talking about topics that are too taboo to be explored, and so we arrived at taboos that weren’t even taboos because they were so unfathomable, and the most popular was that of a son molesting his father.” It is an oddly effective choice – perhaps by reframing the abuse in a dynamic that seems so unlikely, such a reversal, in which the victim is an adult, with full agency, who at least at the beginning of this abuse could have physically resisted his assailant – perhaps all of this makes the abuse freshly shocking, while casting its mechanisms into a starker contrast.

But perhaps it is also just a bit of what we now think of as ‘trolling’… I think these days, there is a little exhaustion with doing something just to irritate, just to get a rise out of someone, just to be as offensive, as shocking as possible. And in this case, Aster may be guilty of just that. Apparently, there was also some criticism at the time of release around Aster, a white Jewish filmmaker, centering this film on a black family—did he just do this just to intentionally stir more controversy, knowing that people can be pretty sensitive about who tells whose story, or was there a true artistic impulse behind it? For my part, I feel that while the story really has nothing to do with race, the demographics of the cast did feel surprising – which speaks to larger problems of representation – and the performances are painfully good, such that it would have been a shame if these actors weren’t playing these parts.  And on the question of “trolling,” I don’t know – I’m less interested these days in giving a lot of attention and hence, reinforcement, to that impulse, but at the same time, I think it can really be a necessary one in horror. Sometimes it is the absence of that mean drive to really bother the audience that causes a work of horror to underwhelm. How can you horrify if you balk at merely upsetting?

Three Full Length Films

I also managed to check out a few features that had been on my list for a while: a bit of small and indie, a bit of cheesy 80s, and a bit of classic French thriller. In short:

Caveat (2020)

The setup of Damian Mc Carthy’s debut feature is intriguing and peculiar: an amnesiac, Isaac, following some accident, is hired by a supposed friend to ‘babysit’ his mentally ill niece in a derelict house on an isolated island. She’s scared of strangers so he’ll have to wear a harness and chain which will prevent him from entering her room (also, as he later discovers, he can’t even reach the toilet). He hadn’t initially agreed to any of these conditions, but he is pressured to accept each new bad idea as it is revealed. Then over the course of one night, really creepy, ghostly, things go down, ultimately revealing details of the sordid history of this house, this family, and Isaac himself.

I must say I wasn’t quite taken with the direction of the narrative. Some elements didn’t track for me (Why does this creepy rabbit doll work as some kind of P.K.E. meter whenever something spooky’s about—it’s cool and creepy, sure, but why is it there? In what order did who kill whom and why?), and the way they didn’t track felt more like something was missing than a mystery by design. However, the unsettling atmosphere and the essential concept were strong. It is evocatively filmed and has a real momentum. And it does play out as a classic ghost story, the psychological and the otherworldly feeding into each other in enigmatic ways – sometimes satisfyingly and sometimes frustratingly. It is far from perfect, but the elements that work (particularly the first act discomfort and mystery) are great. It’s a solid first outing, and I’ll be happy to see what Mc Carthy does next.

Black Roses (1988)

Ok, this was just a ton of fun. John Fasano’s “heavy metal” horror is a delightfully cheesy outing, full of rubbery monsters, campy performances, and mixed messaging which packs all the nuance and entertainment of a 40s hygiene film or something like Reefer Madness. Made during the heady days of “Satanic Panic,” when parents groups lashed out at Dungeons and Dragons and Heavy Metal records, terrified at their corruptive, demonic influence, this film exploits the groundwork laid by these hysterical moralists with the story of a Metal band that comes to a small town and hypnotizes the local youth with their evil tunes (which are, in all honesty, about as tame as can be), causing them to run wild in the streets, kill their parents, and sometimes turn into voracious, fleshy, horny monsters.

A guy is sucked into a stereo speaker by a weird giant centipede thing, mesmerized teens turn into gummy skeletal puppets, and Damian, the lead singer of the purportedly Hellish band, shocks everyone by…pulling off his wig and laughing maniacally (I guess the point was he was about to transform into his poorly articulated, demonic true form and he didn’t want to damage his expensive wig, but it sure looks like his evil revelation was baldness).  Finally, the put upon English teacher, who just wants to have roundtable discussions about the American Transcendentalists between beers, saves the day by burning down the concert venue.

It’s certainly a B-movie (or lower), but it’s also genuinely fun, even if it does imply that the concerned parents of America were right to hate and fear this music. Honestly, I don’t think it has a position – this was just something people were talking about that they thought would make for a good, goopy, sensationalistic horror flick. And, distanced from that particular historical, censorious moment (as opposed to our current one), it does.

Diabolique (1955)

Henri-Georges Clouzot’s thriller is a captivating tale of calculated murder. An abusive schoolmaster (and I could not do justice to just how much of an unpleasant character he is) is murdered by his young, abused wife and his lover, whom he flaunts, but also beats.  Much of the film is quite procedural, following step by step in their plan to carry out the perfect crime, thoroughly covering all of their bases, and it is fascinating and deeply emotional from start to finish (that focus on process is intriguingly reflected in a sequence in which some morgue workers prepare a body for viewing). The wife, Christina, is very religious, having been raised in a convent, and is tormented by the sin they are contemplating and finally executing. The lover, Simone, a tough gal of a lower station, has to push and pull her along to carry out the plot, but in the end, she is finally successful.

And then, without going into any detail, one key thing goes wrong and we’re off to the races, until it all culminates in a chilling final sequence that is nothing if not horror. The film is frequently taut, sometimes funny, occasionally scary, and always totally engaging.  The web of dynamics between the three main characters is ever shifting – for example, these two women have no reason to like each other, and yet here they are, planning a murder of someone they do both have reason to hate; they have been set against one another as the husband, Paul, has made no secret of his dalliances, and yet there seems to be a strange affinity between them, which had me wondering occasionally if they shared a bed as well (I don’t think so, but an attraction seems to linger); Paul abuses them both and yet, for whatever reason, they have both been drawn to him. It is a rich and complex place to dwell, and in the end, it really does offer a solid, disturbing scare.

I had long heard of this as a classic to rival Hitchcock and I think it really lives up to its hype.

Three Short Stories

I’m currently working my way through a 2 tome omnibus of the 6 volumes of Clive Barker’s Books of Blood. He played a significant role in my becoming a horror fan way back when and these short stories were a huge part of that.  I’m planning on discussing his oeuvre in detail when I’m done with the re-read, so I’ll just barely touch on three stories I read this week.  The first was Hell’s Event, following a runner doing a charity event who finds himself at the center of a recurring contest between the forces of light and darkness to set the course of humanity for years to come. Demonic forces hound the human runners to ensure the victory of their infernal ringer, but this gory spin on the rabbit and the hare has the best laid plans of devils and dirty politicians foiled by the obliviousness of basic human mediocrity.  The second, Jacqueline Ess: Her Will and Testament, is a particularly Barker-ian tale of flesh reformed, identity transcended, and the intertwining of sex, torment, and worship. It follows a bored housewife who discovers her power to literally turn men inside out, and essentially becomes a goddess. It’s a trip. Finally, The Skins of the Fathers is a hot, dusty tale of dark god-monsters rising out of the desert for a kind of celebratory-destructive birthday party/auto de fé, ultimately seeking to make men better. 

I love the scale at which he writes, but also the way he revolves around certain ideas and images and obsessions: the body, transformation, permeability, the drive to story, etc.  I’m moving through these tomes slowly as I mostly just have time for reading in bed, am often tired, and don’t get too far in one sitting (or lying as the case may be), but I’m really enjoying the journey and once I come out the other end, I’ll certainly write at length about my take on Barker’s work. 

So, that’s been my week in horror. I remember I’d initially felt some degree of imposter syndrome, feeling like maybe I don’t consume enough horror material for anyone to care what I think about it, but now I look at my two shorts, three films, and three stories and I’m struck that I found so much time in the week, after all.

Good for me.

Threatening Innocence – The Bad Seed & Village of the Damned

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When you consider the things that scare people, some are obvious and some are not. Though most spiders and snakes won’t bite you, some can kill and it’s hard to know which is which. Though standing at a great height on a windless day, there is no reason to think you might fall, if you did, it would be fatal. Though most of us will probably never be stalked by a madman with a knife, that would certainly be unpleasant and we could be forgiven fearing such a thing. But then there are some fears that seem less rooted in realistic threat: open spaces, for instance, or public speaking, or a doll, or a clown.

I think films like Child’s Play or Puppet Master work because toys should be safe. They exist only to entertain children and therefore, carry a de facto innocence. They are in our homes, with our kids, and we trust them, but trust necessitates vulnerability and maybe that’s scary. So if they happen to carry the spirit of a serial killer or have been animated by an ancient Egyptian spell, and come to life in the middle of the night to prey on our children or ourselves, beyond just being a danger, the corruption of the trusted, innocent plaything lends an additional sheen of horror, of wrongness.

So, too with clowns, a common fear. Again, they exist to make kids happy, but their image inherently suggests that something else might lie beneath the façade of a painted smile. Thus, it’s not that surprising that, while most might be perfectly nice children’s entertainers, the monstrous clown, grotesque beneath the greasepaint, has become a common image of fear.

And if these markers of innocence, these things that become horrific because it’s wrong for kids’ things to be scary, if they can send chills down the spine, what about kids themselves? I doubt I’m alone in thinking they too can be eerie. They are human, but they’re not really like us – and are thus somewhat alien. They come from us and we try to “raise them right” to share our values and perspectives, but they retain their interiority and we can never really know what’s happening behind their eyes. We love and protect them, treasuring their innocence for as long as it lasts, but we also know that they can lie, and take, and act out of a wrathful, violent sense of having been wronged. I read somewhere that every two-year-old is essentially a psychopath, but that most of us grow out of it. I’ve never been a parent, but I can imagine it’s a terrifying thought that yours might not.

And so, with that, I’d like to look at two films today that offer iconic treatments of the creepy child: The Bad Seed and Village of the Damned. To really discuss them in some detail, there will be spoilers so I recommend seeking them out before going any further.

What Is It With Overly Mature Blonde Kids?

There are many currents that run through both works, some of which are surface similarities and some of which speak to a deeper resonance. In both cases we have creepy children with flaxen hair, who can be unnervingly adult in their demeanor, whose threat is linked to their heredity, who kill remorselessly to get what they want, and whose parent figures take it upon themselves to kill them.  I think in both films, the creep factor is linked with this sense of a maturity beyond their years. For a child to be cold and calculating, to enact its own gaze, declaring itself a subject of equal or greater prominence as the adults around it, can be unnerving. Rhoda is often praised for her maturity, but sometimes her mother seems uncomfortable with it as well. The children of the village are never demure minors to be watched by their elders – they look back and with their look, they actively use their power, controlling people’s minds and bending them to their will.

We also have an interesting treatment of sociopathy in both cases, but they do differ in significant ways. Rhoda is described as a “natural little girl” who “knows what she wants and asks for it – not like these over-civilized little pets that have to go through analysis before they can choose an ice cream soda.”  Unhampered by social mores, she unashamedly voices her desires and does what she needs to in order to realize them. If this means murder, that is no bother to her and she feels no guilt; after all, she wanted it, now she has it, and she’s not the one who drowned so why should she be upset? The children are also free from remorse, and it is there that their alien potency lies. In their words, “If you did not suffer from emotions, from feelings, you could be as powerful as we are.” It’s not only mental dominance, but rather this amoral freedom that gives them an edge. And in both films, their parent figure futilely tries to instill a moral sense, only to come up against a brick wall (though said wall becomes quite useful in the second film). Much of the horror of both films is the realization of the impossibility of that moral instruction. They are simply different and cannot be shaped by a ‘good upbringing.’

The Bad Seed (1956)

Based on a book, and later a play, of the same name, Mervyn LeRoy’s film is high family melodrama of the first order, and it is a treat. At its center is Christine Penmark, the mother of a young girl, Rhoda, the titular “bad seed.” Having grown up with loving and doting parents, and then loving and doting on a child of her own, Christine has always feared somehow that she was adopted. After noticing concerning behavior from her daughter, she presses the issue and learns that she had been born to a famous serial killer. Somehow this penchant for killing skipped her generation and has been planted in her beloved eight year old child, a child whom we know is responsible for at least three murders and by the end of the film is unashamedly planning a fourth. Christine poisons Rhoda and subsequently shoots herself in the head (in the first of three endings in the film – it had trouble with the Hayes Code and had to do some narrative gymnastics to secure a release). It is an emotional, intense film and the confrontation with a horrific truth, long dreaded and now impossible to deny, situates it in the genre even without the presence of a creepy killer kid.

Central to the story is the classic question of Nature vs. Nurture.  The film is peopled with psychologists, crime journalists, and writers, and they are generally all of the opinion that the results are in and that environment alone shapes personality – a child from a good home, well raised, simply could not become criminal – it is only the socially and economically deprived who fall into a life of crime. The idea that a child could be born with such murderous inclinations is simply beyond belief. Thus, as Christine comes to this reckoning, she is alone in it and her concerns fall on deaf ears.  I think in this, the story circles around issues of class in an interesting manner.  It is clear that Christine comes from money (particularly in contrast to the Daigles, the parents of Claude, the child Rhoda kills), and it is unthinkable that a child of her station could commit a crime – that is something that only poor children do. Now, is the film’s stance progressive in showing how this villainy can grow even in the richest soil, or is there an ugliness in the suggestion that ‘bad blood will out’? After all, it is because Christine’s mother was a killer (from lower circumstances) that her daughter is doomed to be one as well. It is of central importance that Rhoda’s moral deformity is not just a question of happenstance, but rather of heredity.

The main thing that distinguishes this from today’s other film is how emotional it is.  Christine is so distraught by Claude’s death and it is so shocking when Rhoda isn’t. Christine is confronted with the weight of that loss by Claude’s mother, Hortense (Eileen Heckart, who rather steals the show as the drunk, broken mother, with nothing left to lose, gasping for the truth). The juxtaposition of Rhoda happily banging away Au Clair de la Lune on the piano as Leroy burns to death on the lawn is chilling and the choice to focus solely on Christine’s face through the sequence is heartbreaking – she knows whose responsibility this is – hers. And ultimately, the revelation of Christine’s birth is a source of great trauma, and the degree to which she is tragically torn between the need to protect her daughter and to destroy the evil she has spawned is powerful. When she finally decides to give Rhoda an overdose of sleeping pills (which she happily gobbles up as a new vitamin), it is to protect her from a world which would hunt her as a monster. It’s all very effective and it’s a shame that the censors of the time forced the adoption of such a bizarre ending (which I won’t describe, but is fun in its sudden, out of left field, over-the-top ridiculousness).  

Even with this oddly tacked on final moment, the total effect is enjoyably melodramatic and tragic, and it’s got a real bite.

Village of the Damned (1960)

The second film is also concerned with emotion, but more as a study of its absence. While Rhoda can be calculating, she also has a psychopath’s rage. In contrast, the children of the village are totally distanced from emotion, and this remove makes them uncanny. Furthermore, taking an unemotional, scientific approach is what distinguishes the main protagonists as well.

The story begins with a strange and intriguing occurrence. One day, everyone within the border of Midwich, a small British village, falls unconscious. In response, a military team investigates methodically, setting up a perimeter, seeing what happens when someone new enters (they pass out as well), and testing everyone when all is said and done.  One moment sets the tone for the rest of the film. Major Bernard, unable to reach family in Midwich, goes to investigate. When nearing the town line, he sees a police officer enter to check out a crashed bus and immediately collapse. He doesn’t run in after him or try to help him at all, but immediately turns around and drives the other way to call in the authorities. What a reasonable thing to do.

It’s soon discovered that every woman of child bearing age is now pregnant (a fact resulting in some heightened emotion – both good and bad as some husbands have been away on work or some teens have never even kissed a boy) and those pregnancies develop rapidly, resulting in a batch of eerie, platinum haired babies all born on the same day, who can telepathically communicate with each other and have some power of command over others. We largely follow Gordon Zellaby, an older man with a young wife who finds himself the supposed father of one of these children. A man of science, he does not seem overly bothered by his lack of true paternity, but is thrilled at the possibilities the children may lead to: “they are one mind to the twelfth power. Now just think what it would mean if we could guide it…we cannot throw away this potential just because of a few incidents.”

Others in the town, in the government, or in other countries where this strange event also occurred are made uncomfortable by the kids, and in some countries we learn that the children, and even sometimes the mothers, were all killed (in the USSR, the whole city where they lived was nuked because they had taken control and there was no other way to stop them). However, Gordon defends their value to science and human progress, establishing a school that they will all be moved into, where he can try to teach them, instilling human values of empathy and kindness.

In the end, he comes to understand the threat they pose to humanity at large (planning to spread and start new colonies), he calmly sends his wife away under some pretense, and managing to block them out of his mind, he goes for his final lesson with a bomb in his briefcase and blows them all up. While The Bad Seed chews the scenery at every opportunity (delightfully so), this films plays it cool, and that is perhaps its central theme. The children’s lack of passion, of affect is both troubling and powerful. They are more open to Gordon than some others because he is able to approach them from a position of scientific curiosity and not outrage, and in the end, he defeats them by acting in a precise, calculated manner.  It’s even easy to miss his change from their defender to their killer, and when I first watched it, I found that to be a flaw – something was missing.

While the first half had been so intriguing, in the second half, as we moved towards the climax, it was all so cool – where was the drama of this final decision? But on reflection, it is fitting that his was the only possible solution. The angry villagers with pitchforks and torches were immediately rebuffed and/or burned to death. The scientist who has simply made a reasonable decision and who goes to carry it out in a dispassionate manner can successfully mask his intentions and carry them to completion, thus saving the town, and possible the world itself.  It is not that he lacks emotion (he seems to love his wife, had been initially quite happy at the prospect of parenthood, and played the piano wistfully waiting to go off and explode), but he can act without it, and thus triumphs.

What’s Worse – Fire or Ice?

While Rhoda lacks empathy or true tenderness, she experiences passions. She wants, and demands, and takes hotly, lashing out when not accommodated. The children of Midwich are rather the opposite, acting only out of a calculated biological drive to live and to spread.  They do not rage or feel wronged; they do just that which is necessary. And which of these is really the larger threat?

In both cases, morality and ethics are absent. Neither cares about how others feel or what they think. But one is hot, chaotic, and probably far easier to identify with – we all get angry sometimes, feel wronged, want to have what we want when we want it – and the other is cold, reasonable, and organized. For my part, Rhoda is scariest in a personal sense – we know that the world is full of jerks and egoists who only care about themselves, and we constantly have to interact with them (though hopefully none of them will burn us alive, drown us, or push us down the stairs). Furthermore, the horror of a child being so irredeemable is really awful. But the children of Midwich represent something much scarier on a larger, necessarily impersonal, scale. In their uniformity and cold, functional intention, they are the drive of progress, of power, of the future, of any system or machine that cares not who gets crushed beneath its wheels as it moves inexorably forward. Do they have a whiff of Nazism in their Aryan appearance and drive to power and domination?  Perhaps Rhoda is a more horrific person (because she is a person – a simplified perhaps, but well-drawn young sociopath), but the children of Midwich are a more chilling concept, especially since it probably can’t be forestalled by thinking of a brick wall: the future will come for us – it cannot be reasoned with – and it will break us.

But I’m sure your kid is great. A little angel. Nothing to worry about at all…

Three from the Woods – Just Before Dawn, The Town that Dreaded Sundown, Eaten Alive!

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So, I try to ensure a degree of variety here. Two weeks ago, I published my silly poems – which was a lot of work and a lot of fun, but not really scary. Last week, I wrote about yet another Polish film which has a relationship to the genre, but however excellent of a film it is, it’s not quite what one would generally think of as a horror flick. So this week, I felt it was time for something kinda grotty, something that could be described as nothing less than horrific. I even found myself with a bit of time on my hands and was able to check out a few flicks I’d been meaning to get around to for a while. In the end though, while I appreciated everything I watched, I’m not sure if I have enough of a take on any of them to fill a whole post, so this week, let’s take a short look at three weird, violent little filmic oddities, all of which might convince you to stay out of the woods, avoid secluded lovers lanes, and maybe just steer clear of Texas entirely.

Just Before Dawn (1981)

I was prompted to give this one a chance by the main character of Stephen Graham Jones’s My Heart is a Chainsaw, who waxes enthusiastic about it and its final girl, Constance, and I’m glad I did as there is a lot here to love (and some other stuff to wade through until you get where you’re going).

It’s a pretty standard backwoods slasher setup: a group of young people head into the deep woods of Oregon despite the warnings of the quirky forest ranger (an enjoyably odd George Kennedy) for a weekend of drinking, skinny dipping, and carrying on. They don’t all come out again. Along the way, there’s some pretty languid pacing, surprisingly bloodless kill scenes, strange tonal shifts (from pastoral, to a bit goofy, to rather intensely brutal), and a “twist” that doesn’t feel all that shocking when it’s revealed.

However, it also features Mike Kellin (Mel from Sleepaway Camp) as a drunken voice of doom, an effective score by Brad Fiedel (composer for Terminator and Fright Night, among others), a beautiful location, well filmed and well utilized in service to the horror set pieces, and a twist which, while admittedly not very surprising, does set up solid tension based in dramatic irony as the only characters who had learned this information are dead, and those remaining are led to a false sense of safety.

In fact, pacing issues aside, Just Before Dawn offers a lot of really playful and potent teases – letting the audience see something or know something while (very obviously, but no less entertainingly) contriving reasons for the characters not to. Early on, the kids (let’s call them kids anyway) are all driving through the woods in a camper. One girl re-angles the rearview mirror so that she can do her makeup; the driver objects, but she’s like, ‘come on – there’s no traffic – what do you need it for?’ A moment later, we can see the killer (who had recently leapt aboard) climb across the back, clearly visible in the rear window, but unseen by all of the kids. A particularly fun scene later hinges on a character having lost his glasses and mistaking the figure moving towards him. These gags are hardly subtle, but the audience is invited in on the joke and there is a fun game of suspense in how it all plays out.

And finally, as this film came so strongly recommended by a fictional character obsessed with final girls (I’m sure I’ll write about My Heart is a Chainsaw sometime soon – for now, let’s just say it’s worth your time), it has a greatly interesting presentation of one. Constance (Deborah Benson) comes across as some kind of thesis statement on the idea of the final girl, which is notable as the director, Jeff Liebermann, didn’t seem to list slashers as his primary influence, but rather claimed inspiration in Deliverance and the work of Ingmar Bergman. She starts off as a very reasonable character – possibly the only one who’s actually dressed appropriately for hiking and camping – who has experience in the great outdoors and is mildly irritated by the goofball irresponsibility of her boyfriend and compatriots. She might have some wine, but she doesn’t overindulge, and if anyone’s going to pull off their top and jump into the water, it’s probably not her. So far, so standard fare.

But then something kind of interesting happens. Some of the boys who had gone to the camper for more wine play a prank on those who’ve stayed behind to make camp. Just out of sight, in the woods, in the dark, they make some noises, scaring the others by the fire (who had all ignored the drunk guy ranting that he’d been chased by “demons” and come here anyway). Though her friend Megan picks up a knife and is ready to stab at one of the boys as he jumps out of the shadows, Constance freezes up – and over the course of the next day or so, really reacts against her failure to take action. She’s so capable – she knows how to survive in the woods, but when there was a threat, she felt helpless. And so, she begins a transformation, borrowing Megan’s makeup and clothes, making herself into less of a ‘responsible-boring’ type and more into an impulsive, proactive, powerful woman. In all honesty, perhaps the director simply wanted to get her into skimpier clothing, but from a contemporary perspective, in light of what became the standard patterns of the sub-genre, this really subverts expectations in an intriguing way. Either way, this change coincides with her need to rise and do battle with the killer.

And what a battle! I mean really – it’s not very long and it doesn’t really have much in the way of gore, but it is just jaw dropping in its intensity (and without wanting to spoil the big finish, pun intended). I find it an interesting spin on the still being established tropes (filmed in 1980) that the ‘final girl’ first visually turns herself into a character who might be expected to die first (the over sexualized girl) and that while no killer in this film wears a mask, in effect, she does. The makeup that she keeps applying gives her a totally different face, and it seems that it is only once this mask is complete that she has finished her metamorphosis into the kind of person who could take down the killer in such brutal, spectacular, screaming fashion.

It probably could have gotten there faster (though I suppose it’s thematically appropriate to sometimes feel like it’s wandering aimlessly in the forest), but the destination is 100% worth it.

The Town That Dreaded Sundown (1976)

This second film is rather a curiosity.  If Just Before Dawn has some shifts of tone, this swings so wildly back and forth that it feels like at least three different movies. One is a procedural true crime docu-drama about a police hunt for a serial killer in Texarcana in the 40s. The next is a really savage proto-slasher with increasingly weird and genuinely scary scenes of stalking and assault. Finally, somehow it’s like the Keystone Cops are on the scene, with zany slapstick sequences set to banjo music. This is one odd duck.

Directed by Charles B. Pierce (who also portrays Patrolman Benson, A.K.A. “sparkplug,” the main source of police themed comic-relief), the procedural elements here suggest a precursor to Fincher’s Zodiac. Loosely based on a true story, the film focuses on the police investigating a killer who targets couples in secluded areas (lover’s lanes and such) and toys with the police, taking pleasure in the media circus and public terror in response to his crimes. The structure is somewhat non-narrative, rather approximating a kid of reportage as we shift from killing to killing, interspersed with the police’s attempts to build a profile of the killer and follow the extremely limited clues they have to work with. By the end, the killer’s identity, motives, and whereabouts are still undetermined (true to the historical record, though most of the film apparently plays fast and loose with the facts), suggesting that though these attacks had all happened about 30 years earlier, the killer was still walking the streets of Texarcana, free and at any point could kill again. He could be sitting behind you in this very cinema as you are watching this film right now!

The less said about the comic elements, the better. While not quite as off putting as the bumbling police in, say, Craven’s Last House on the Left (which along with Just Before Dawn also claimed a Bergman film as an influence), the inclusion of the cop-comedy is unfortunate. It’s not even terribly done per se, but it feels like the procedural and the proto-slasher really could have successfully co-existed in one film, but the utter goofiness of this slapstick really undercuts both of them. Still, I suppose the oddness of its presence is one of the weird little details that make this flick rather memorable.

But, of course, in terms of the focus of this blog, it is the scenes with the killer that are most significant. Released in 1976, two years before Halloween would kick off the slasher boom, the killer here matches so many of what would become the conventions. He is masked (a sack with eye holes, suggesting both the Klan and a menacing killer scarecrow, or a precursor to the Jason of Friday the 13th, Pt. II), silent except for heavy breathing, a stalker in the shadows who kills for reasons totally obscure to both the audience and his victims, and grows more creative in how he carries out his crimes.  At first, his primary weapon seems to be a simply a silenced pistol, but as the film progresses, he improvises, using what is at hand, such as a pitchfork, or in one rather disconcertingly off-beat kill, a bladed trombone. He is scary and the scenes of him hunting and setting upon his prey are tense, visceral, and frightening.

Again, this is a weird, idiosyncratic little picture. It is filmed beautifully, but some performances and choices seem amateurish. It adopts a tone of Dragnet-esque “just the facts,” down to the voiceover narration, but also features sequences of both such over-the-top silliness and atmospheric horror that sap its pretense of factual reporting of any authority. It’s kind of hard to guess who they thought they were making this film for; but that is also, of course, its charm. There is no clean, successful formula at work here. The film is what it is. Part of that is an engaging study of police process. Another part is honestly pretty stupid. And finally, about a third of it is a really great scary movie.

Eaten Alive (1976)

At the end of The Town that Dreaded Sundown, the killer disappears into Texas swampland. So it is fitting that today’s final film, from the same year, takes place in those same Texas swamps and is also loosely based on another historical serial killer, this time Joe Ball, A.K.A. the Bluebeard of South Texas, A.K.A. the Alligator Man. Beyond that point of connection, it seems that more than the rural settings or early slasher vibes, the main thread running through these three films is their unbridled tonal fluctuations. Tobe Hooper’s 1976 follow up to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is an absolutely bizarre nightmare that weirdly bridges the grindhouse and the arthouse.

The story, if you will, centers on a series of people unlucky enough to stay at the Starlight Hotel, someplace in a swampy stretch of Texas. The place is run by Judd (Neville Brand, who delivers a spirited, committed, pungent performance) , a mumbling, threatening, utterly unhinged nut job who’s seemingly in the habit of murdering everyone under his roof and feeding the bodies to his pet crocodile. First we meet Clara, a young runaway who has just been kicked out of the local brothel. Seeking refuge, she comes to exactly the wrong place and is never heard from again. Then a young couple shows up with the family dog. Once Snoopy ends up inside the same reptile as Clara, Angie (the young daughter, played by Kyle Richards a couple years before Halloween) freaks out and her parents check in to calm her down. It’s not long before the father is Croc food, the mother, Faye (Marilyn Burns, returning from Texas Chainsaw to scream her lungs out again), is tied to a bed with tape round her mouth and young Angie is being chased through the crawlspace by Judd with a scythe. A local sleazebag (a young Robert Englund) and his girlfriend check in to pay by the hour; unsurprisingly he gets eaten. Finally, Clara’s father and sister, Libby, show up looking for her. He doesn’t make it, but once she rescues Annie and Faye, the three of them escape into the swamp where Judd unsurprisingly is eaten alive!

So that is the series of events, roughly as they occur, but it does the film a strange injustice to suggest that this all somehow forms anything as pedestrian as a “plot.” It rarely feels like there is much connection between events from one moment to the next, suggesting either inept editing or a thoroughly intentional nightmare logic. As opposed to Chainsaw, this was all filmed on a soundstage and it makes no effort to mask that fact, rather embracing artifice throughout. This is true from the deep, rich theatrical colors of the lighting, to some eccentric acting choices, to an absolutely abrasive sound design. This film seems to have no interest in following any rules of “good film making.” This may sound like a criticism, and I suppose anyone with little tolerance for such things should be forewarned, but I think it is all part of what makes this one noteworthy. This is a unique, strange, utterly non-formulaic, very personal exercise in horror. It may be rooted in a kind of amateurish failure, but it feels like genuine experimentation and expression.

Nowhere is this more evident than in its vacillating tone (again, a running thread through these three movies). Many of the scenes take on a cartoonish vibe, supported by the color palette and some broadly stylized performances. There is an unreality permeating it all which can be really unsettling, but also funny and engrossing.  There are times that I found myself just in shock, wondering what on earth this thing was.  But in that cartoonish grotesquerie, the film establishes a madcap hellscape – a horrible place filled with terrible people who are all at best “off,” and at worst, monsters.

And then, just when the film is at the height of absurdity, of a kind of shrill, wild, laughable insanity, it can turn on a dime and be absolutely brutal. In the moments of actual violence, there is nothing light – there is no room to breathe, there is only a sustained scream of terror and mindless, uncontrolled wrath. It is genuinely intense, successfully scary, and bleak and dark as all get out.  It is clear that this was made by both the same creator as Chainsaw as well as its much zanier sequel which he would direct ten years later. More so than anything else he did in the 13 years between, I think this bridges the gap between those two totally different films.

I can see a lot of people not taking to this one. It would be easy to discount it as a failure on a wide variety of levels, but I suspect artistry in it, a mind at work, taking a dim view of humanity and the world, and painting a mad picture of the cruelty people are capable of and the petty, impulsive irrationality that drives them. It is not exactly a ‘fun’ picture, but in a peculiar way, it is satisfying, especially in its commitment to its own project, its own dark, loony vision. Sometimes you may hear it said that a certain film from the past ‘just couldn’t get made today’ and that might actually be true in this case, but it’s not about the exploitation elements of sex or violence. Rather, I think these days there might just be too much pressure to make a “well-made film,” which could quash the kind of creative self-expression so weirdly and gloriously on display here.