Been There, 'Saw That: TEXAS CHAINSAW 3D

There's a special pleasure to be had in seeing a 3D horror film in the theatres, waiting for implements of destruction and severed body parts to be thrust in your face like something out of an old SCTV sketch. Too many lopped-off limbs flying towards the audience are not enough, I say, and Texas Chainsaw 3D honestly needs all the help it can get.

The newest Leatherface outing starts off with a promisingly bold maneuver, skipping the three original sequels and the charmless, glossy, Michael Bay-produced remake (and its prequel). A highlights-reel of footage from the 1974 original plays over the opening credits, bringing us up to speed and picking up directly where that movie left off. The shotgun-wielding kinfolk of the first movie's family of hillbilly cannibals shows up to defend the homestead, including, inexplicably, a young mother and her baby daughter. Not to be outdone, an angry mob of locals shows up with even more firepower and molotov cocktails, and the demented clan gets blasted & roasted, in that order, with (seemingly) only one survivor--the baby girl, who is secretly adopted by a married couple among the mob. Fast-forward several years to a young goth girl named Heather (Alexandra Daddario) who receives a will saying that the grandmother she never knew she had has passed away, and that she now owns the old lady's palatial estate. The only sane response, of course, is for Heather to call up her pals and have a party there--what better way to get over finding out that your parents aren't who they said they were your whole life?--bringing along a predictable bunch of slasher fodder like the Slutty Best Friend, the Token Black Guy, and the Hunky Hitchhiker. Of course, the will says nothing about the secret door in the basement that hides the home of the other survivor of the family massacre (one wonders how easy it was to hide, for decades even, a hulking, brain-damaged cannibal who wears a face made out of human skin). Soon, the titular chainsaw roars back to life, taking down Heather's friends and several of the locals alike (many of whom participated in the opening mob scene, and are now in various positions of authority around town). As Heather slowly (very slowly--the 92-minute film does a lot of stalling for time) learns the truth about her real family heritage, the townspeople are shown to be the real monsters for committing such a heinous act of vigilantism and then covering it up. At least, that's the idea.

Texas Chainsaw 3D isn't clever or daring enough to inspire much excitement among fans of Tobe Hooper's original film (Hooper returned to produce the 2013 model--there's also a brief cameo by original Leatherface Gunnar Hansen in the opening minutes), but in its defense, there's also not enough of much else to inspire outrage, either. For the most part, it's a pretty by-the-numbers affair that owes more to Halloween IV: The Return Of Michael Myers than anything else, what with its young heroine learning of her familial connection to a legendary maniac. There are a few flashes of humour that, frankly, the movie could have used more of, like Leatherface pausing to put on his tie before the final showdown (I always loved how he dresses up nicely for the climactic dinner scene in the original), the reveal that Leatherface's last name is Sawyer (get it?), and a goofy after-the-credits stinger that provides a cheap punchline for Heather's identity crisis. But there's not enough of this stuff to justify the film's existence--even Hooper's own 1986 follow-up had the good sense to play the idea for laughs.

Which brings me to the biggest stumbling block in any attempt to build on the world of the original 1974 film. That groundbreaking terror flick seems to almost exist outside of any recognizable reality, creating instead an impressionistic vision of a world slowly going mad. It's filled with strange omens (is the solar flare activity discussed in the early scenes responsible for the chaos that follows? Does the creepy hitchhiker somehow mark the leads for death when he smears his own blood all over their van?) and ambient sound design (that weird, high-pitched noise that plays over the opening sequence, the buzzing of the chainsaw, Marilyn Burns' nonstop screaming for the last twenty minutes). Logically following from the nightmarish events of the first film is a nearly insurmountable struggle, on par with the challenge Peter Hyams faced when sequelizing 2001: A Space Odyssey--it's like having to create a sequel to a feeling or an emotion rather than a story (for the record, I like Hyams' 2010, but I don't envy him his task). But it's a bit much to expect from a money-driven slasher reboot by a hired gun director (prior to this, John Luessenhop directed the 2010 caper flick Takers) to take artistic chances or even have much of a sense of humour about itself, so Texas Chainsaw 3D plays it predictably safe. The only added dimensions a movie like this can realistically allow itself, after all, are the ones that enable blood and blades to fly towards filmgoers.

Death Waltz Recording Company

In the last few years, I’ve become a reluctant vinyl enthusiast—reluctant because the last thing I need is another thing to obsessively collect. This shouldn’t come as a huge surprise to anyone who knows me, seeing as how I have pretty retro leanings on a lot of stuff, but once I got a record player I had to agree with the general consensus of audiophiles everywhere—music just sounds better on vinyl. In a fairly short amount of time, I’ve amassed a decent pile of records from various sources new and used, with a heavy emphasis on soundtrack albums. Any horror vinyl I can find is particularly prized, but usually pretty hard to come by (a recent Christmas gift of the soundtrack to The Exorcist, a gift from my screenwriter pal Mark Palermo, holds a special place in my collection). So when a company like Death Waltz Recording Company comes along, offering reissues of classic horror scores on vinyl, how could they not become my new favourite label?

Based out of the UK, Death Waltz offers a catalogue of cool soundtracks—with, so far, a heavy emphasis on the John Carpenter collaborations of Alan Howarth—packaged with eye-catching new artwork by notable graphic designers (these are included as mini-posters inside the record sleeves as well!). Their releases so far include Zombi, Halloween II and III, Escape From New York, Donnie Darko, Prince Of Darkness, The Living Dead At The Manchester Morgue, and Let The Right One In, with more presumably on the way. They offer limited edition coloured vinyl releases on a few titles, and a flexidisc version of Howarth’s Halloween III score. Each release also includes liner notes by both the composer and the cover artist. There’s also a nerdy touch that I really appreciate—the spines don’t tell you the name of the movie or the composer, instead offering a choice quote from the film in question.

So far I’ve only gotten my hands on Halloween II and Prince Of Darkness, both given to me as Christmas gifts from in-the-know pals this past year, but I’m looking forward to expanding my collection. It’s a real treat to hear the eerie synthesizer stylings of Alan Howarth bouncing around my living room in that rich, warm sound that only vinyl is capable of delivering. Locally (in Halifax, Nova Scotia, that is), you can pick up Death Waltz titles at Obsolete Records, and if you’re elsewhere visit the official Death Waltz site for mail-order info. Your straining record shelves may protest, but your ears will thank you.

Silent Night

Having never seen the original Silent Night, Deadly Night from 1984, I don't have the proper context to be outraged by the 2012 version--whose title has been shortened to simply Silent Night. However, I've been told that the Winnipeg-filmed update has little to do with that notoriously seasonal slasher flick, beyond both of them having a killer Santa in them, so I can safely hold onto my remake rage for January's Texas Chainsaw 3D.

Silent Night follows the trail of carnage left by a less-than-jolly Saint Nick, one who punishes the naughty by way of stabbing, impaling, and immolation by flamethrower. Those who are nice are rewarded with, well, not being on the receiving end of any of those. A recently-widowed deputy (Jamie King) has been tasked by her sheriff (a weirdly-cast but nicely tongue-in-cheek Malcolm McDowell) with ending the string of ho-ho-homicides. The investigation is further complicated by the fact that the town holds an annual Santa parade, so the streets are already running red with possible perps.

The original Silent Night, Deadly Night provoked outrage upon its release, prompting some parents to issue death threats to the filmmakers for daring to depict Santa as an axe-wielding maniac. I can't imagine it'd be much comfort to them to know that the '12 model is a more comedic take on a similar idea. Jayson Rothwell's screenplay is a lot sharper and wittier than you might expect; the once-picturesque Midwestern town the film takes place in is suffering from economic decline, and has accordingly surrendered to the more fruitful industries of drugs, prostitution, and pornography (meaning that there's no shortage of potential victims for Santa). Comedy aside, though, this is still one bloody movie. A bratty little girl gets skewered, a philandering cop gets barbecued, and a porn actress is stuffed feet-first into a woodchipper. With its unspeaking Santa viciously doling out punishment to local nogoodniks, Silent Night is really more of a vigilante tale than a slasher movie. Director Steven C. Miller creates a world of exaggerated cartoon violence, bathed in appropriately garish colour schemes. The supporting cast (particularly McDowell's eccentric lawman and Donal Logue's drug-dealing Santa) is great, and King is game and determined as the film's heroine, even if the model-turned-actress looks a bit too glammy for a small-town deputy. It may earn everyone involved a lump of coal, but Silent Night is a sick, slick little stocking stuffer.

Joe Dante Tears You A New HOLE

When I watched the superb 1987 Canadian horror flick The Gate two Halloweens back with some pals, we all lamented the fact that nobody really makes horror movies for kids anymore. I don’t know if it’s just that there isn’t really an audience out there for such a beast, or if filmmakers and studios are just squeamish about upsetting children and, by extension, their parents (this latter seems the more likely of the two to me). It’s kind of a shame, really—obviously there was a bit of forbidden-fruit factor to watching movies I wasn’t allowed to see when I was a kid, but there was also something undeniably cool about movies like The Monster Squad and Gremlins that spoke to youthful fright fans on their level. Unsurprisingly, one of the few modern entries in this all-but-vanished genre comes courtesy of Gremlins director Joe Dante, whose long-delayed, PG-13 rated movie The Hole recently came to DVD and Blu-Ray.

The Hole concerns a family of three—teenaged Dane (Chris Massoglia), younger brother Lucas (Nathan Gamble), and their mom (Teri Polo)—who move out of the big city to the ‘burbs (sadly, not the ones in Dante’s underrated 1988 movie—no Tom Hanks or Corey Feldman in sight, although that film’s crazed Vietnam vet, Bruce Dern, has a fun cameo). Fooling around in the basement, the boys (and Julie, the cute girl next door, played by Haley Bennett) find a padlocked trapdoor in the floor that leads…nowhere? The pit underneath the door is seemingly bottomless, but opening it appears to have unleashed a great evil on the world, and it’s not long before the trio find themselves menaced by apparitions of their worst fears—Lucas is pursued by a creepy toy clown, Julie sees a ghostly little girl from her past, and Dane must face a spectral doppelganger of his abusive father. The kids learn that the only way to send the evil back into the hole is to conquer their fears forever. It’s a nice message of youthful empowerment (reminiscent in some ways of the institutionalized kids in Nightmare On Elm Street Part 3), one that reinforces the very need for children’s horror movies.

The Hole was filmed in 2009 and received a brief theatrical run earlier this year before arriving on DVD and Blu-Ray in October. The theatrical release played in 3D in some markets, and certain scenes are a dead giveaway for the format’s use, particularly in early scenes where objects always seem to be flying at the camera. The movie’s edgy approach to youthful adventure has always been Joe Dante’s stock in trade (in addition to Gremlins and its sequel, Dante directed Explorers, Small Soldiers, and one of the better segments in Twilight Zone: The Movie), and it’s a treat to see the underrated helmer back on familiar ground. Unfortunately, Dante hasn’t had a hit film in a while—his more recent output has been on the small screen, with episodes of CSI and Hawaii 5-0—so he can’t really get his hands on the kind of funds that would allow him to best realize his vision anymore. As a result, The Hole is pretty visibly threadbare in the budget department. Dante does his best with what he has, and it’s better than you might expect; the grinning, evil clown puppet is a standout visual, as is the twisted funhouse version of the real world where Dane faces off against his dad’s monstrous doppelganger. But for the most part, the production design and performances bring to mind a better-than-average episode of a TV show. In fact, the story itself (written by Mark L. Smith), feels mostly like an extended episode of Goosebumps or, more appropriately, Eerie, Indiana (the short-lived series Dante created for Fox in the 1990s)—not egregiously overlong, but a bit on the threadbare side. Joe Dante is a gifted filmmaker who deserves a comeback, and I don’t think The Hole is going to provide it—for either the director or the sadly bygone genre of horror movies for kids--but it’s still a step in the right direction.

The Night Has Its Price: NEAR DARK Revisited

I was thrilled when I found Near Dark on Blu-ray for ten bucks at the grocery store a few weeks back. Thrilled, because it's an underrated little gem of '80s horror, but also a bit grossed out because it came packaged inside this fugly little bit of Twilight-bait cover art.

I think any hapless Twihard who picked this movie up based on the cover would be pretty disappointed. If anything, Near Dark is kind of the anti-Twilight. It's a vampire movie for people who don't like vampire movies. The word "vampire" never once shows up in it, and there's not a single fanged mouth to be found. It's also a stylish early feature from A-lister Kathryn Bigelow, whose The Hurt Locker nabbed her a few Oscars, and whose upcoming Zero Dark Thirty looks set to do likewise. Near Dark opens as a Texas kid named Caleb (Adrian Pasdar) meets Mae (Jenny Wright), an alluring young girl with cold skin and a taste for blood. When Caleb gets bitten, he finds himself abducted by Mae's bloodsucking kinfolk--gravel-voiced Jesse (Lance Henriksen), bleach-blonde Diamondback (Jenette Goldstein), stone-cold psycho Severen (a scene-stealing Bill Paxton), and embittered eternal youth Homer (Joshua Miller). While Caleb's frantic father (Tim Thomerson) searches for him, the family of vamps is busy inducting the kid into their world of nightly mayhem--feeding on long-haul truckers and whole honkytonk bars full of unlucky rednecks.

The script, by Bigelow and Eric Red (who also wrote The Hitcher--the guy definitely had a thing for scary desert highways), plays more like a gritty western than a brooding vampire flick. There are some great throwaway lines alluding to Jesse and Severen's extended lifespan ("Hey, Jesse, remember that fire we started in Chicago?", "I fought for the South. We lost."), and the cast is terrific all across the board. Bigelow was married to James Cameron at the time, and she makes the most out of her then-husband's Aliens cast members (a movie theatre has the 1986 sequel listed on its marquee in the background of one shot). Shot by Terminator 2 cinematographer Adam Greenberg, the film looks gorgeous, particularly in high definition--the combination of dusty highways and slick neon gives the film a look unlike any other. And I don't know if Garth Ennis or Steve Dillon have ever acknowledged it, but their still-classic Preacher comic series owes it a debt, particularly when it comes to their portrayal of blood-drinking Irish rogue Cassidy.

And man, wouldn't Lance Henriksen make a great Saint Of Killers?

Come to think of it, Jenny Wright would have a made a swell Tulip, too.

25 years later, Near Dark has aged just as well as its undead heavies. We'll just have to wait and see if Twilight and its pasty-faced kin can say the same in 2037.

Do Not Disturb: Decoding Kubrick's THE SHINING In ROOM 237

Stanley Kubrick’s 1980 film adaptation of Stephen King’s The Shining, which doesn’t stick very closely to the source novel, has more than its fair share of detractors (King himself among them). But those who like it like it a lot, and some of those who like it have taken it several steps further than the rest of us—reading a variety of coded messages in Kubrick’s detail-packed production design and carefully composed shots. Five such fans, and their various interpretations of the movie’s deeper meanings, are our guides through the new documentary Room 237. These individuals have become lost in the maze of the Overlook Hotel, so to speak, and their obsessive quest to determine the true significance behind every single shot of the film makes for fascinating, if at times laughable, viewing.

The five unseen narrators—mostly writers and indie filmmakers—walk us through their own readings of what they each believe The Shining is really about. One narrator claims that the movie is a subtle indictment of the genocide of Native Americans, pointing to the mention of the Overlook being built on an Indian burial ground, as well as the various Native American artwork and designs throughout the hotel (he ascribes particular significance to a well-placed can of Calumet baking soda, featuring the silhouette of an Indian chief, in the pantry). Another insists that the movie’s famous hedge maze alludes to larger mythological underpinnings, even going so far as to insist that a backlit portrait of a skier in the Overlook's game room is meant to suggest the form of a minotaur (it’s a bit of a stretch, to say the least). Another still is convinced that the film is a commentary on the Holocaust, taking care to point out multiple appearances of the number 42 (the year Hitler implemented his “Final Solution”) and the German-made typewriter used by Jack Torrance. Most absurdly, one narrator, filmmaker Jay Weidner, is absolutely certain that Kubrick used The Shining to admit his compliance in helping NASA fake the moon landing on a sound stage. Details like Danny Torrance’s “Apollo 11” sweater, Weidner insists, are impossible-to-miss signposts of the director’s compliance in the conspiracy. Weidner, who documented the alleged fakery in his 2011 film Kubrick’s Odyssey, concludes that Kubrick was so torn up with guilt over what he’d done that he inserted hidden messages admitting his involvement in the film’s design and, more overtly, within Jack and Wendy’s marital strife (Weidner says that Kubrick scripted these scenes as a way of dealing with his inability to come clean with his own wife over what he’d done). Kubrick, who died in 1999, is conveniently not around to confirm or deny any of the claims made by Room 237's narrators.

Most of these theories are pretty ridiculous, and are clearly the result of watching the movie far too many times. That’s not to say that all of the ideas espoused in Room 237 are completely half-baked, though. Some of the observations are thought-provoking, namely the ones that suggest Kubrick’s narrative is concerned about dealing with our inability to cope with past trauma and societal guilt over unthinkable atrocities. This may or may not actually have been Kubrick’s intent, but it’s an interesting way of looking at his work. Another section deals with alternative methods of viewing The Shining, walking us through a one-time theatrical screening where the film was projected over itself in reverse—playing forwards and backwards at the same time. A number of strange visuals result when watching the movie in this fashion, like Jack Torrance’s face appearing over the two murdered little girls (the combination of visual elements gives Jack a weirdly clownlike visage). Again, there’s no way Kubrick could have anticipated such results, but it’s kind of cool nonetheless. However, for every thought-provoking aside in Room 237, there’s another snicker-inducing observation from the narrating fans, like the aforementioned minotaur, or the massive erection Weidner insists appears onscreen in the form of desk clutter when the Overlook’s manager, Mr. Ullman, meets Jack Torrance in his office for the first time.

Directed by Rodney Ascher, Room 237 could have easily become a dry treatise on film study, and does threaten to do so on a few occasions (such as some of the play-by-play sequences where the audience is invited to watch a super-slowed-down scene from the film, all in the hopes of catching a tiny detail that isn’t really there to begin with). But the film is kept visually interesting through the use of clips from Kubrick’s other work (Eyes Wide Shut and 2001: A Space Odyssey turn up a lot), as well as some other, less-obvious, non-Kubrick choices (like An American Werewolf In London and the 1985 giallo flick Demons). A synthesizer score by William Hutson and Jonathan Snipes keeps the mood appropriately cerebral, with a hint of the macabre. Many of the theories touted by Shining superfans in Room 237 may be as rail-thin as Shelley Duvall, but the documentary gives you a new appreciation for The Shining itself—a fascinating, maddening puzzle-box of a movie that has as many possible interpretations as the Overlook Hotel has rooms.

A Bad Case Of Crabs: Barry Levinson's THE BAY

When you think of the found-footage horror genre, a name like Barry Levinson doesn’t usually spring to mind. After all, what possible interest could the Oscar-winning director behind Rain Man and Good Morning Vietnam have in the format? But the Baltimore-based filmmaker has an ecological agenda to explore in The Bay (produced by Paranormal Activity’s Oren Peli), which raises real concerns about the effects of pollution in Maryland’s Chesapeake Bay. It does so through the device of a terror flick about murderous, mutated crustaceans, but anything that helps to get the word out will do, I suppose.

The Bay recounts the events of one serious bummer of a Fourth Of July celebration, as seen through the lenses of various video devices utilized by the citizens of Claridge, Maryland. Variously, we follow the action through footage taken by a local news crew, police surveillance cameras, a young girl’s FaceTime conversation, and more. Right around the time of the big crab-eating competition, a mysterious plague seems to sweep through the entire town, afflicting the locals with horrifying boils and causing them to spit up blood. As the emergency room fills up with frantic, seemingly diseased townspeople, we hear tell of a pair of ecology-minded scuba divers whose bodies were recently discovered floating in the Bay. The duo was chewed up as though a bull shark had gotten at them, but as we learn more and more about the town’s corrupt Mayor and the variety of pollutants being dumped into the Bay—chicken crap from the local poultry mill, waste from a nearby nuclear plant—it becomes apparent that something nastier is taking place. We are told that the Bay is now 40 % lifeless (a true statistic, as it turns out), and what life does still exist there is being preyed upon by isopods—normally tiny crustacean lifeforms that have been growing to unusual size thanks to pollution. The entire water supply of Claridge has been tainted with isopod larvae, and both the marine life and the townspeople are being eaten alive from the inside-out by the nasty bugs…who have a particular taste for tongues.

With its Fourth Of July setting, corrupt city officials, and what appears at first to be a flesh-eating virus, The Bay sometimes feels like Jaws meets Cabin Fever. It takes awhile for the real threat to emerge, and at times it seems like the film is piling on too many potential explanations for the chaos. A good deal of the action is documented by a young intern from the local TV station (Kether Donohue), and her running commentary—particularly with regards to the impending arrival by boat of an unsuspecting young couple and their baby—is a bit silly. There’s also never really any explanation why some people remain unaffected by the isopod massacre, considering that nearly the entire town is wiped out by it. That said, the idea of oversized bugs munching their way out of your body is pretty horrific, and the many scenes of bloody, tongueless townspeople are suitably disgusting. CGI bugs are exactly the kind of special effects that don’t usually translate well to the found-footage format, but the ones seen here are used sparingly and effectively. You probably won’t go to bed afraid that isopods are going to get you after watching The Bay, but you’ll probably want to skip the crab legs next time you eat seafood.