Hobo With a Shotgun (2011)

"If only you could see what I've seen with your eyes..."

Despite a complete lack of depth, Jason Eisener's neo-grindhouse Hobo still gets the job done. Like a creaky roller coaster, it takes you for one hell of a relentless ride into the abysmal depths of society, caricatured with (very) broad strokes of a bloody brush on a decrepit urban canvas. Genre icon Rutger Hauer therein manages to combine the murderous anger of replicant Roy Batty, the tenderheartedness of Blind Fury's Nick Parker and the derelict look of The Hitcher in one engrossing character with iconic potential: a poor man's Batman whose visceral sense of justice is unmarred by aristocratic word-chewing and flashy gadgets. Well-supported by a cast of ultra-nasty villains and heroic hookers, he breezes through the narrative with his hand on the pump and the viscera of his adversaries all over his dirty clothes. That said, the title alone should give you a fairly accurate description of what to expect from the film, not in its literal connotation alone, but in its simplistic, straightforward and politically incorrect wording.

Hobo wishes to start anew. But he needs

to do a little cleaning first...

Face value

Frankly, while the film is highly entertaining, a delight for undiscriminating fans of gory violence, it doesn't have any further ambition. When I first read the synopsis, I immediately thought about Street Trash. And so I braced myself for an unapologetic milieu study that used black humor to highlight the desperate joie de vivre necessary to endure life in the gutter. But that was without taking into account the film's gorgeous cinematography, its surprising sense of social realism and tendency toward self-deprecation, which are nowhere to be found in Hobo.

Eisener's film is a lovingly crafted homage to both the exploitation cinema of the 1970s and the gore cinema of the 1980s. But beyond this crude, yet successful crossover of genres, it has little to offer in terms of artistic or intellectual depth. It is purely focused on fan service, which makes it refreshingly unpretentious, but also wholly limited. Everything on the screen has great face value, but from the moment you scratch the surface and try to find deeper meaning, you will be met with the coldness of interstellar void.

Although it shares Troma's knack for crafting overly nasty, intellectually inane villains, Hobo lacks the lighthearted, parodic tone that helps propel Kaufman's films near the realm of social satire. What's left are unidimensional, hardly memorable archetypes whose raison d'être is entirely limited to titillating our bloodlust and providing meaty obstacles on the protagonist's course. There are no hilarious stabs at municipal politics or juvenile nihilism in here, just an endless strand of clay pigeons succeeding each other under a rain of buckshot.

Using a gritty, grainy style of photography to circumvent the atrocities, the film uses disgusting violence in order to justify disgusting retaliation in a never-ending loop of immediate, simplistic causality. Thus, the only fun to derive from the film lies with one's own twisted sense of justice and enthusiasm for ruthless gore. But then again, the target audience has both of these qualities in spades.

Blowing up balls for justice

Street cleaning in a nutshell

Thankfully, the film is so fast-paced and full of nasty splatter that it hardly gives you time to breathe and reflect on the flimsiness of the narrative. It starts with an unnamed hobo on a train, crossing the border into Hopetown, which the locals have dubbed Scumtown, a much more adequate denomination for this urban hellhole. One of the first events witnessed by Hauer's character is a brutal street execution carried out by local crime kingpin "The Drake" and his two dim-witted sons Slick and Ivan. Their victim, Drake's brother, is stuck through a manhole with a cast-iron cover fastened around his head, then beheaded in front of a large crowd forced to cheer at gunpoint. After that, a scantily clad she-bum rushes in and starts dancing lasciviously over the geyser of blood.

After witnessing a number of such tasteless incidents, culminating in a particularly mean-spirited robbery in which a toddler is menaced at gunpoint, the protagonist abandons his dream of purchasing a lawnmower to start a landscaping business and buys a shotgun instead, with which he wreaks havocs on the many different types of criminals plaguing Hopetown, following the trail of bodies right up to The Drake. In the process, he befriends a warm-hearted prostitute who gets stuck in the crossfire when she attempts to help him exact justice. There are no subplots here, just a mean, literal and linear chronicle of the titular character's exploits, highlighted by frequently creative gore and some tame attempts at humor articulated around crude word plays and a cameo by popular Canadian show host George Stroumboulopoulos who hams it up as a newscaster brutally murdered on the air. As for any attempts at legitimate social critique, they are marred by an overly cartoony depiction of violence and a total lack of nuance in the characterization.

Beheading in 3-2-1...

Canadian genre fans unite!

Just with the description above, you should know instantly whether or not this film is your cup of tea. Even a mildly positive reaction should warrant a ticket for the ride, for there is no let-down following the initial street execution. There is actually an incremental progression in the brutality of the violence, which is sure to please even the most demanding of gorehounds. That said, I urge all Canadian genre fans to crowd the few theaters in which the film is shown nationwide. At the dawn of these umpteenth general elections, it will give you a rare chance to appreciate federal money well spent.

The reviewer for this week's Montreal Mirror opened his article with a statement to the effect that Hobo represents the most controversial use of Telefilm's money since David Cronenberg's Shivers in the late 70s. While a far cry from David's first commercial feature film, a venereal zombie film and a strong link in his unbroken chain of body horror films, Hobo delivers what every genre fans relishes: rhythm, gore and a total lack of morality. And it delivers all these things in stacks. Thus, you get blown-off heads, beheadings, broken limbs, hung orderlies, carbonized children, splattered hobos, hands stuck in lawnmowers, shotgun wounds to the stomach, bone shard impalements, neck-sawing, skate blade kicks, fuming electrocutions, cop killings, chest carving, genital explosions, all comprised in the short, 86-minutes runtime. Suffice it to say that this film is j-u-i-c-y, and it is quite unapologetic about it. Its Manichean outlook on justice and personal politics in the face of criminality actually help it stuff brutality with brutality, creating a turducken of gore, which becomes the perfect vehicle for the crafty special effects team at work here.

Getting your money's worth

From the moment you approach the box office and say: "One ticket for Hobo with a Shotgun", you should know where your money is going. Or at least, you should have a pretty fair idea of what to expect. That said, nobody who willingly decides to cross the threshold into the theater should be disappointed with the film. For Canadians, it's also a rare chance to see their tax money at work. And while not every taxpayer will agree with the filmmakers' usage of immoral ultra-violence, nobody can deny that they did a great job of giving the fans exactly what they want, which is what popular cinema is all about. Thus, while it is a social investment in monetary terms, Hobo gives us an instant return onscreen, in a vernacular language shared by all, rich and poor, Francophone and Anglophone, men and women. Truly, it is one of the very, very few good things to come out of Harper the First's Conservative government. But now, come May 2nd, it will be time for a new era of medieval obscurantism to begin. After that, our home horror films won't be on the screens anymore, but in the streets, where cops with stun batons will beat and jail 100-pounds hippies armed with cardboard signs in a tyrannical display of power that perfectly exemplifies the state of North-American democracy as a form of representative repression. Still, when corrupt heads of state start ruining your lives, you can always turn to the horizon and maybe, just maybe, a hobo with a shotgun will be there!

3/5: A relentless gorefest that gives you no time to reflect on its shallowness.

Footnote 02/14: Added half a star. Karim Hussain's over-saturated photography is just that good, and a nice way to create that vintage 70s look! 

Neighborhood Watch (2005)

Note: This review contains images of extreme gore. Please stop reading if you are easily offended by the sight of a man's hand probing his own insides. Otherwise, please enjoy.

Cheaply made but devilishly efficient, this rugged entry in the suburban horror sub-genre is a maelstrom of despair that engulfs your soul in a repugnant spiral of disillusionment that will leave broken and hollow. The weirdly excessive gore scenes showcased near the end are in it for a small part, but what really distinguishes this film from other such genre entries is its permeating ugliness. The characters, the sets, the situations, everything here shares an unfathomable crass quality that actually makes them all uneasy to look at. More importantly, Neighborhood Watch offers no safe haven to the viewer, no break. It is ugly from top to bottom. It is a prison that you will unlikely leave unscathed. And, distressing as it may be, it is a prison with airs of reality.

A prison with airs of reality:
the Zeecor corporation.

How disgusting is life?

Let us take care of the bullshit first. While the film boasts to be based on real events, it doesn't derive any form of realism from it. Besides, realism is rarely an asset in an horror film. What we have got here is a depressing semblance of reality. It's a narrative that could be conceived as plausible, but only in a very specific context of mental illness. The film's efficiency derives not from such considerations. It derives from an overwhelming, and somewhat artificial, insistence on the uglier aspects of daily life and our casual acceptance thereof. The problem is not with a certain undercurrent of madness plaguing American Southerners, as one is let to believe by the offensive ramblings of a nasty radio guru which the protagonist listens to day-in day-out, it is with the daily sacrifices we have to make in order to attain a prefabricated form of happiness, which the desert bungalow is synonymous with. It is also a film about the part everyone plays in the unhappiness of his neighbors and fellowmen. And while it hammers its point home with some shockingly repulsive imagery and a healthy dose of grotesque caricature, it never loses sight of the ball. In short, Neighborhood Watch is trash with a purpose.

The plot of the film involves newlyweds Bob and Wendi moving into a ghost town created by the nefarious Zeecor corporation, where Bob has just landed a job. Despite the decrepit aspect of the town and its senile population, the couple seems happy at first, enjoying the feeling of success one can derive from the ownership of a desert bungalow. But soon after their arrival, they become plagued by a mentally-disturbed neighbor named Adrian Trumbull, a man so evil and despicable as to elicit disgust from even the most forgiving of Christians. Annoyed with the couple having sex in his sterile, sexless town, the man does everything he can to intrude in their lives, appearing as a friend to be when he is actually akin to the antichrist. As a token of good will, he even offers his neighbors candy, which he has laced with powerful laxatives. After a while, during which Bob and Wendi try to ward Adrian off to no avail, he even poisons their water supply, sending them in a wicked spiral of sickness. But after many trials and tribulations, including many nasty scenes in the bathroom, Trumbull is defeated while performing some amateur surgery on himself.

Suburban dilemma: Unwanted
generosity vs panicked refusal.

Prefabricated towns, prefabricated villains
While it is quite easy to grasp the protagonists' terror, antagonist Adrian Trumbull remains a very problematic figure. Halfway between the casually intrusive neighbor and the demented psycho, he seems to be both a would-be realistic and a fantastically evil character. While his mild-mannered, slightly insistent relationship with the protagonists seems to imply nothing more than a clumsy attempt at dialogue, the overdetermined sets used to depict the inside of his house would seem to suggest a total loon. The dark, cluttered space where he spends his days, his chaotic collection of jars containing pickled body parts and poisons, the offensive radio chatter that hums in the air and the guy's nasty habit of eating the crusty bits of flesh surrounding a stitched-up wound on his hairy belly, all of these point squarely to an unrepentant madman. And while these somewhat generic indicators of madness contribute their fair share to the disturbing imagery of the film, they contrast with the more grounded, would-be realistic horror elements used in setting up the narrative. Most importantly, it makes Adrian to be a man so whacked out as to warrant some sort of characterization. Making him instead to be a simple consumer of radio drivel doesn't even start to explain his current situation. If you're still unsure about my words, then please be directed to the official website of the film in order to better bask in the atmosphere permeating Adrian Trumbull's house. What you will find is something far removed from the standard esthetics of the suburban horror film, where horror is hidden beyond the surface. What you will find is the endless multiplication of "horrific" surfaces, something akin to what had previously been done with John Doe's apartment in Se7en, but without as much relevance within the narrative. And while I feel the makers of this film should've expended on Adrian's background, I also feel that this could've been a self-defeating exercise as nothing could possibly be satisfactory in trying to explain his casual evilness. As it stands, the man is perhaps too much of a caricature, or a caricature that's just out of synch with the other caricatures contained in spades within the film.

I remember seeing this film the year it came out, but I also remember hating it. When trying to recall why, I can only think about the lame story structure and the somewhat redundant nature thereof. I also remember being underwhelmed by the gore after falling victim to the overblown publicity focused on supposed cases of hives and nervous breakdowns suffered by theater patrons during test screenings. I mean, if one were to put an unsuspecting housewife in front of this film, then maybe you would garner such pathological results. But seeing how I shared the screening with the hardened crowd of Fantasia (where only one person out of a sold-out crowd of 750 walked out of A Serbian Film), I should've known better and expect nothing in the way of transcendental gore. But being the explorer of extreme horror that I am, I still entertained a crazy hope fueled by my own emotional instability. And I was let down. Actually, it took a second screening, during one of my frequent moments of depression, for me to really understand what the film was truly about, namely everyday horror, and not extraordinary horror as I was first led to believe.

Extraordinary horror: Adrian
Trumbull probing his own insides.

Horror is in the desert bungalow
With the aggressive publicity campaign focused on the goriest, but also most overdetermined aspects of the film, the distributors of this film have failed to delineate the most horrific aspects thereof, namely the everyday ugliness to be found in the protagonist's occupation and the "dream house" which he has just bought with his candid wife. The arid, lawn-less exterior of the bungalow, its repulsive architecture and darkened interiors contribute much more to the horrific atmosphere permeating the film than the stuffy interiors of Adrian Trumbull's house, with its jars full of preserved body parts and poisons. Youthful dreams of ownership, moving up in the world, starting a family, these are all dirtied by the process of realizing that dream by selecting the cheapest package available, including corporate lodging in a ghost town filled with old people and the physical partaking in the environmental crimes committed by said corporation. Then, there's the possibility of ladder-climbing, but it involves the whoring of oneself in an effort to be extracted from the window-less depths of a bland office building. As disruptive as it may appear, the involvement of a psychotic neighbor hellbent on poisoning you is merely a supplementary horror thrown on an overcrowded canvas. Besides, the overdetermined imagery associated with the man's evil eventually falls flat but in the places where one can imagine him to be nothing more than an intrusive neighbor, which taps into the mundane aspects of horror that I praise here.

That said, despite the highly implausible surgery scenes, the overly aggressive tone of the radio preacher and the excessively cluttered shelves permeating the antagonist's lair, the whole thing plays out along terms familiar enough to make you share the protagonists' ordeal. Seeing how it revolves around everyday annoyances (such as a neighbor's annoying intrusiveness, trouble in the workplace and a fading sense of community), it will undoubtedly involve even the most level-headed viewer. There is no supernatural occurrences here, no vampire or alien next door, just the straightforward, highly intelligible reality of sickness. Hence, the power of diarrhea, hives, and stomachaches to better help the viewer partake in the action as a physical entity not impervious to sickness. The sneaky nature of chemical warfare (depicted as an expedient both for Adrian and the Zeecor corporation) takes a horrific dimension in the corporeality of the protagonists and their fellowmen (the viewers). As for the crumbling sense of community, it also affects us all on both sides of the screen. The isolation of the protagonists, their alienation with their neighbors, their vain attempt to mobilize people under the titular banner, all of this should also hit the viewer right at home, where all of our individual/familial bubbles are lined up contiguously without really touching or interpenetrating. Horror is thus produced not by introducing an horrific element within a homely world, but by highlighting (with recourse to a caricature) the horrific elements deeply ingrained in what should be a homely world.

Everyday horror: the desert
bungalow as dream house.

Deadly end in sight

Repackaged under the lame title Deadly End, Neighborhood Watch has left the festival scene for the video market without much of a fuss, the main reason being that it isn't your average horror film. It is a highly offensive piece of trash. Still, it is a very powerful, very depressing effort as it cultivates the darker aspects of a somewhat mundane reality. In my mind, this is a film not unlike Belgian export Ex-Drummer in the sense that I would both recommend you see it, but also stay away from it. Both these films are so repulsive in their depiction of everyday life as to completely depress you. But they do so for a purpose. They do so for you to look around for a moment, and think. Think about what it is for you to live your life as you do, and what it is for others to live their lives, then think about what it is you could do so that the bleakness shown in these movies is no more. I originally wanted to rate the film 3 out of 5, but as I was writing the present review, I felt a sort of icky feeling against my skin. I even shied away from a third viewing, knowing what to expect, but not exactly sure that I wanted to experience it... Such staying power is rare amongst casual genre films. And if you consider director Graeme Whifler's career, it is all the more impressive, seeing how he thus trades the silly one-liners of flat slasher film Dr. Giggles (which he penned) for corrosive satire, making Neighborhood Watch more than a simple video UFO, but a masterpiece in its own right.


3/5 Cheap, but very effective, this film successfully walks the fine line between satire and farce to create a very twisted meditation on the horrors of everyday life.

Footnote 02/14: Removed half a star from the rating. Got carried away again because of my depressed mindset at the time of writing this review. 

Drag Me to Hell (2009)

Despite a worn-out premise involving a gypsy curse, Drag Me to Hell manages to be refreshingly entertaining and wholly engrossing thanks to Sam Raimi's typically energetic directing and some luscious, post-Spiderman production values. While it is far from being Raimi's best film, it's a nice return to form for the director of the Evil Dead series, who delves once again in the occult in order to showcase his panache as a visual stylist and animist. But although this new outing revels in visual excess, it lacks the narrative excess and irresistible over-acting that made his earlier work a worldwide cult phenomenon. That said, the absence of Bruce Campbell is noticeable, especially with the presence of returning collaborators Scott Spiegel and Ted Raimi, who are both given bit parts.

Well-crafted archetype: incidental

antagonist Sylvia Ganush

A screenplay that writes itself

In the film, Alison Lohman plays Christine, a self-seeking loan officer who yearns for a promotion in order to prove herself worthy in the eyes of her snooty stepparents. When a decrepit old gypsy comes begging for a loan extension that would allow her to retain her home, Christine is pressured into refusing despite personal politics which she ignores for the possibility of ladder-climbing. This will prove to be a deadly mistake as the old woman curses the protagonist, throwing her on the path to Hell by way of an oppressive demon called "Lamia". With three days left prior to its arrival on Earth, Christine must find a way to exorcize the demon at all costs, lest her shiny promotion and rich, caring boyfriend make way for eternal damnation.

There's not much more to the story here since the majority of plot points are dated to the point of rust, leaving technical execution squarely in charge of propelling the narrative. Originally, the film was supposed to be a remake of Jacques Tourneur's Night of the Demon, but it eventually became a slight variation thereof, with the Raimis transposing the narrative from the cobblestone streets of London to contemporary Los Angeles, where it makes even less sense. That said, every genre fan knows that a conventional premise is not necessarily an obstacle to greatness, which it certainly isn't here.

Night of the Demon with a
contemporary twist: Drag Me to Hell

Drag Me to Hell is an unpretentious, well-made popcorn film. Its shameless revisiting of tired old myths (including many returning gimmicks from Raimi's earlier films) and its crass predictability (complete with a clumsy, transparent twist ending) actually work in its favor, using common grounds to hook the viewer early on while never requiring him to make any sort of intellectual effort. Here is not a challenging film. It is not an atmospheric film either. It is a gimmick film. But it is a damn good one, thanks to the zealous crew of film fanatics at work backstage. The plot may be underwhelming, maybe even a bit racist as some critics have contended, but it's a perfect set-up for an exhilarating film experience.

A pretty decent experience in grueling terror

Watching this film, I realized that Sam Raimi is quintessentially an action film director. The hyperkinetic camerawork and frantic editing associated with his work are staples of action cinema, not horror. Moreover, the man never really manages to convey anything in the way of genuine horror, nor does he seem keen on doing so. Any sense of "grueling terror" supposedly derived from the Evil Dead films is force fed to the viewers by way of aggressive tracking shots, weird camera angles and speedy zooms. These films are not meant to depict atmospheric terror, they're meant to convey the "experience" of madness, hence the manic willpower of the camera and the outrageously obtrusive humor that permeate the ensemble. The present film is no exception as it features an incredibly zany, unforgettable confrontation between the protagonist and crusty old Sylvia Ganush, who happens to be much feistier that she appears. It also confronts us with a supernatural creature that manifests itself in violently humorous ways, causing juices to spurt widely, flies to become sentient and forcing angelic Christine to sacrifice the cutest kitten you ever saw. Fun stuff all around.

Evidently, remaining faithful to his roots also means for Raimi to showcase bodily fluids in copious amounts. And believe me, the present film doesn't skimp on fluid grossness, making the entire effort akin to an exercise in framing regurgitation. Blood, insect swarms and embalming fluids are all seen flushing out aggressively from the mouths and nose of the characters like so many bulimics' meals. For those who enjoy their meat with extra gravy on top, this is the film to see. As Raimi-esque tastes dictate, there is little in the way of traditional gore (eviscerations, beheadings, axe wounds...) for there is a humorous quality to the splatter behind which the slapstick of olden days always looms. The whimsical severed hand, fork-wielding dwarves and gulped eyeballs from the Evil Dead films find equivalents here in the inappropriate blood spurting and fly eructing that plague Christine's life, making her appear to the common person as a completely demented hag.

Splatter as slapstick: Christine

showers her boss with blood

Purists will surely be annoyed by the amount of CGI involved in the process, but I reckon this is now a necessary evil in horror filmmaking. Considering the amount of time and resources necessary to create disposable latex-based beasties and effects, the computer alternative becomes obvious. Besides, it works quite well here, given the briefness of most effects and their subservience to the narrative rhythm. And while it contrasts with the artisanal style of filmmaking prevalent in Raimi's earlier films, this should come as no surprise to Spiderman fans. The days of poverty are long gone for old Sam. No longer does he have to work with latex and Bolexes, turning out campy fare for midnight crowds. But although his films now share the glamorous shine of A-list pictures, they still bear his unique stamp. The sparkly clean images of today are still imbued with the madness of yesterday. No longer can fanboys see his films as readily feasible achievements, but they certainly can thank their lucky star for allowing Raimi to remain true to his roots. The man has entertainment in his blood and money can't change that.

In effect, Raimi here is revisiting his old stomping grounds with the riches of a parvenu. And while he continues to wow us with his engrossing technique, his new film lacks the unbridled creativity of his previous works, which seems to have been born out of necessity and made possible by a lack of big-studio ties. While I don't want to accuse "the system" of all the world's ailments, I reckon that their intervention in matters creative is mostly nefarious, making narrative concerns overwhelming in the face of true affect, which the film manages to turn out, but in a somewhat diluted version.

Horror film rain at the service of perverts:
Alison Lohman covered in mud

In conclusion, I would like to address that wonderful scene where Christine digs out the gypsy's corpse in order to try and put an end to the curse. Obviously, the set is quite familiar. And so is the heavy rain that showers from the skies. However, its combination with Alison Lohman's body produces quite a nice effect. I mean, what's the point of having a dude covered in water? None. As for Lohman's petite silhouette, it greatly benefits from the molding effect of the rain. This is no Where the Truth Lies here, but it's a nice touch, and it goes to prove just how dedicated and caring Raimi is in his depiction of the overdetermined situations and locations which he has to work with. After all, there is a somewhat universal quality to grave-digging scenes and I wouldn't be surprised if the mere mention thereof generated a very precise series of images in the reader's mind. But with Raimi, these images are pushed to the limit. There's literally waterfalls of mud here, a nearly sentient corpse and a greatly determined heroine, who has come a long way from her quiet cubicle in the bank, thus brilliantly mirroring the emotional progression of other Raimi-esque characters. Her newly sexualized self stands opposite to the sweet, girl-next-door looks she sported at the beginning, out of which she has grown to better subvert her film persona (seeing how she is somewhat of an ingenue). And so, just like he did for Liam Neeson in Darkman, Tobey Maguire in Spiderman, and Bruce Campbell before that, Raimi uses the harmless looks and persona of his actors to better transcend their character's personality switches. And to great effect, I might add, for madness has a way of liberating people, just like it does in Raimi's films. The director originally wanted to cast Ellen Page as Christine, which should tell you exactly the kind of petite, harmless actress he wanted to transform through this new experience in grueling terror of his.

There's a liberating feeling to all of Raimi's films, a feeling that's deeply rooted in the deliberate pacing, hyperkinetic camerawork and emotional epiphanies ingrained in his narratives. There's also a lightness to the horrific elements he showcases as humor is always a step behind, making fun the objective of his entire enterprise. There's no higher purpose here, just raw, unadulterated entertainment. Which in turn brings us back to the roots of cinema as a blue-collar, escapist form of expression. Not a higher form of art, but a derivative exercise in mob-manipulation. That is why Drag Me to Hell succeeds as an experience akin to a roller-coaster ride. A nice example of how Hollywood genre cinema need not reinvent itself, but rather exalt fun as their most salient feature.

3/5 Formulaic, but exhilarating film proves that execution trumps originality when it comes to Hollywood horror.

Friday the 13th: A New Beginning (1985)

A scant year after the producers of the infamous Friday the 13th series tried to fool viewers by dubbing their latest offering "The Final Chapter", they outdid themselves with another grandiose title: "A New Beginning". Well, if this new beginning is a sign of things to come, then you better give up on Jason right away because this film is the pinnacle of anemic cinema, both in the literal sense and storytelling-wise. After 90 minutes of random, unsatisfying three-shot kills featuring an endless array of boring bystanders, you might as well wish for Jason's machete to put an end to your agony.

Could I get some dips for my chips?

This fifth chapter in the popular, yet highly generic series fathered by Sean S. Cunningham is the unsalted cracker of horror movies. It features no suspense, no characterization, no surprise, no atmosphere, no Jason, but worst of all, no blood. Or at least, not nearly enough blood to salvage what is essentially a mechanical accumulation of obligatory death scenes filmed without flair and without passion. Honestly, it's hard to find anything remotely attractive in this fakely whimsical, tedious new entry. There are two nice pair of breasts to provide a tiny bit of titillation, but nothing you can't get with a few clicks of a mouse (how great it is being a teenager in the age of Internet...). Buffed up lead John Shepherd provides a couple of inspired, mildly exciting fight scenes and there are a few interestingly framed kills, but finding them is akin to salvaging goods out of a dumpster.

The story focuses on Tommy Jarvis, the kid survivor from the previous installment. Now a grown adolescent, we see him confined to a private retreat for various fuck-ups (interpreted with a blatant lack of conviction by some no-namers and TV actors). At some point, people start dying and one is supposed to wonder exactly how Jason is involved. Is he stalking Tommy? Is Tommy so shell-shocked from the events of the previous film that he has developed a murderous alter-ego? While the answer is absolutely ludicrous, you won't even be inclined to engage in the guessing game as every character is flat and uninteresting. You will rather want them to die as soon as possible, and you will undoubtedly curse the limited amount of pain inflicted on them. What is perhaps most annoying of all is the fact that the killer is revealed early on by a compromising close-up. And let me tell you now, it ain't Jason risen from the grave. It is something even more uninteresting.

What the fuck is this?

If you want a good idea of what the film has to offer, simply look at the original VHS sleeve. For one, I believe that it deserves a spot in the pantheon of the ugliest cover art ever to be approved for mass distribution, all media confounded. Hell, even the original Mega Man cover wasn't that bad. At least it featured some background graphics, even though they were completely retarded and mostly unrelated to the game at hand. What we've got here is the epitome of unimaginative, short-sighted commercial thinking: a fucking hockey mask with glowing red eyes. There appears to be something in the right socket, but who cares. The Friday the 13th films are not known for their depth, and the more you look for it, the more frustrated you will become once you face the true emptiness at the heart of the series.

0,5/5 A high body count of bystanders can't save this boring, underwhelming sham of a film

Hellraiser: Bloodline (1996)

Directed by FX wiz Kevin Yagher (who disowned the film after his work was marred by studio interference), this fourth entry in the popular, but flawed Hellraiser series is not as bad as people have said. Still, it's pretty bad, especially since Pinhead has now greatly upped the ante in terms of tedious philosophizing. Dreadful Cenobites aside, the film stars a wide array of paper-thin, underexposed characters thrown against a confusing canvas of mythological hodge-podge. Although it contradicts many of the facts brought forward by the first three films, I would still recommend it to completists who might want to broaden their knowledge of Hellish lore and who don't mind the occasional inconsistency.

Why couldn't Chatterer be the lead Cenobite?

Damn you to Hell, Pinhead!

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Pinhead sucks! The S&M guru is especially dreary in this fourth episode as he talks non-sense for what appears to be an eternity, rambling on about the virtues of pain like a senile dominatrix going nostalgic on us. From the moment he rears his ugly, nail-ornated head, you know the fun is over. What loose narrative thread still holding the film together becomes severed to fit the overwhelming need to showcase His ignominious Majesty. Even though Clive Barker's original novella mentioned him only in passing, he soon became a necessary staple of the series, sparking riots amongst fans through his absence. And like many boogeymen before him, he has also become an overwhelming presence in the narrative, one that limits the screen-writers' job to finding cool-sounding but empty one-liners for Doug Bradley to recite in distinctive British speak.

Born in Liverpool, where he became friends with Barker and fellow writer Peter Atkins (who wrote the screenplays of chapters 2 through 4 as well as all four Wishmaster films), Bradley is not unlike one of the Beatles. His face is instantly recognizable amongst pop culture aficionados and any performance he gives is met with awe and adulation from insatiable fans. But whereas Barker and Atkins are John and Paul, Bradley is more of a Ringo, using "a little help from his friends" in order to achieve fame as part of a project driven by more enterprising artistic talents.

Personally, I prefer when his character takes on a more subdued role (as in the original Hellraiser and Hellraiser: Inferno, my two favorite entries in the series). Then, and only then can the focus be on the real protagonists of these films, that is the humans caught in a web of ill-fated desires. After all, Pinhead is neither a funny, nor a like-able guy. He is a blood-thirsty demon who would gladly sink hooks through every part of your body. It's actually a miracle that his brand of one-liner pelting actually caught on. For that, you have to give credits (or boos) to Clive Barker, whose original screenplay contained the juiciest ones, including "We'll tear you soul apart!" and "No tears, please. It's a waste of good suffering." (actually a two-liner...). These simple bits of dialogue, as well as the brilliant makeup/costume job from the original creature crew, have created a monster. Not a demon, but a fanged rat, eating away at the screenplay like merry old Freddy Krueger, who also became a farce once his own series started to depict him as a comical anti-hero meant to sell Halloween costumes.

A trio of tentative tales tenuously tied together

Although the film begins in outer space during the year 2127, it quickly shifts to the Age of Enlightenment as the mysterious Dr. Merchant tells the story of the Lament Configuration. Alone aboard space station Minos, Merchant had just solved the golden puzzle box with the help of a remotely controlled robot when the place was overrun by cops out to arrest him. Unconvinced as to why they should let him pursue "what he has started" (namely, summoning Pinhead and his cohorts in order to trap and destroy them forever), the shrink of the pack takes him aside for a friendly consultation during which Merchant calmly explains his actions by retracing his family history and incidentally, the history of the box.

We then cut to 18th century Paris where his ancestor Philippe Lemarchand is creating a custom toy for a wealthy client, the Lament Configuration. Unaware of how cruel Duc de L'Isle intends to use this contraption, he stands by the window of his mansion after delivering the object and witnesses the summoning of a demon princess, ironically named Angélique, within the skin taken off a peasant girl. Traumatized by the sight, he eventually decides to create another box, one that could counter the effects of its demonic double. Dubbed "The Elysium Configuration", this new box seems only theoretical at this point, involving rays of light trapped in perpetual motion within an outside shell of gold and black.

Lemarchand witnesses the evil he has created

When Lemarchand is killed by Angélique while on a mission to retrieve the Lament configuration from De L'Isle's mansion, it's up to his descendants to give a definite shape to his theoretical project. But Hell has other projects for the family of "toymakers" (as they're affectionately called by the Cenobites), projects that involve the creation of a box that would permanently bridge the gap between Earth and Hell. Starting with architect John Merchant in 20th century New York and closing with Paul Merchant in the 22nd century, the saga of the Lemarchand children are chronicled in the last hour of the film, which involves far too many narrative shortcuts and plot holes to really cash in on the intriguing premise.

The third sequel syndrome

By the time the third sequel rolls around, it is not uncommon to see horror film series launched into outer space. Think Hellraiser: Bloodline, Leprechaun 4, Critters 4, with Jason X being a late bloomer. This should tell you just how desperately film producers are reaching for plot at that point. But whereas it made sense for the Critters to go back from where they came, demons from Hell hardly seem at home in the stellar void. Being a Gothic piece, Clive Barker's clever novella seems to lose relevance when transposed away from the Victorian estates of Britain, large family houses seeping with the secrets of many past generations. Even the modern villa of Dr. Channard felt alien to the mood cast by Barker. So did Joey's high-rise apartment and JP's over-crowded nightclub. Now Pinhead's up in space!?! For me, this is the umpteenth proof of how purely commercial film sequels are and how willing studio businessmen are to sacrifice the spirit of an artwork in exchange for a mere hint of novelty meant as a selling point. The production history of this film is actually riddled with such interferences and this is how Pinhead has come to reign supreme over the narrative.

As I understand it, the film was meant to focus on the decadent French bourgeois from the first timeline. But instead, the producers wished to introduce geek star Pinhead earlier and so, they removed slices of meat from the narrative in order to replace them with tasteless, chewy fat. Thus, the early incarnations of soulless Cenobites within French aristocracy, which could've helped us better understand the origins of Frank Cotton's ritualistic masochism, are removed to make way for an established, readily exploitable, but irrelevant figure. Having failed to grasp the defining trait of the previous Hellraiser films, namely human desire and its ability to push the boundaries of pleasure into the nether realms of pain and suffering, this new entry relies on superficial staples (such as Pinhead's monologues and various blood-drenched ceremonies), creating what is basically a grocery list of horror gimmicks. Given this mindset, the space setting may appear as a nice addition, but it's actually a meaningless attempt at exoticism.

On top of that, space has never looked so dull. Comprised mostly of dusty chunks of trash apparently taken from the dump, the futuristic scenery is entirely underwhelming, which is a necessary drawback of the production's obvious lack of artistic consensus. Against such a depressing backdrop, which should remind aficionados of the dreadful depiction of Hell contained in Hellbound, Pinhead's brand of joyous sadism almost seems illuminating. And so, we are treated to a few inventive bits of gore, including a hook in the brain (accompanied by a cute squishing sound) and a singular death by crushing. The third act is highlighted by gore, which slightly compensates for the terribly lackluster sets and lack of genuine tension.

The "Cenobite Maker" scene will likely

wake the viewer from his slumber

Gore-wise, the film has its moments. The obligatory Cenobite Maker scene is quite nice. It involves a pair of twins whose faces are fused together with a rotating cylinder. Duc de L'Isle's necromantic ceremony is equally creepy. It features skinning, hooks and a pit to Hell. Nonetheless, while gore and gruesome imagery goes some way to try and salvage the inconsistent narrative, they don't fully succeed. Their contribution to the last two chapters are earnest but they can't compensate for the lacks in the art direction and screenwriting department. That said, the middle segment is by far the weakest link in the film. It features the least interesting Merchant, the most incomplete scenario, the biggest quantity of verbiage by Pinhead and the most uninteresting costumes. If it weren't for a glimpse of Valentina Vargas' exquisite body during a dream sequence, this segment would be entirely forgettable. Surprisingly, despite numerous cuts, the first segment remains the most intriguing one and its radiance accounts for nearly all my enjoyment of the film. Almost the entire creativity and craftsmanship of the production team seems to have been focused on this segment. The costumes and sets are way superior and the character of De L'Isle, although short-lived, is the most intriguing in the entire film. He would have made a perfect replacement for evil protagonists Frank Cotton, Dr. Channard and JP Monroe. Unfortunately, his early death leaves a void in the narrative that remains unfilled. And thus the film starts its rapid decline into oblivion.

The whole world in a bottle

Clearly, this film is too ambitious for its own good. Containing three distinct timelines spanning almost 350 years and covering the entire history of the infamous golden box from Clive Barker's The Hellbound Heart in a scant 80 minutes, it was an impossible achievement. The screenplay's lack of finesse, its crude usage of returning motifs and pathological emphasis on Pinhead all combine to ruin a valid, but wishful premise. Most importantly, it reveals just how confused and uninteresting the Hellraiser mythology really is.

Whereas the first film was a Gothic tale of lust, the later films have all branched in different directions with their one uniting feature being a disturbing fetishism for the leather-bound Cenobites and the many contraptions that allow their coming. Here, screenwriter Atkin's debilitating obsession revolves around "the box". In the original film, the box was an exciting prop, but that's just what it was: a prop. Its origin was unimportant. It was the mystery surrounding the object which was exciting. Being a timeless piece of deviant art, its forbidden nature gave it all the sense it needed to have. Whatever we may have imagined it to be in our minds is much more exciting than what it is revealed to be in this film. And this betrays the very nature of horror film sequels: to create entire mythologies around secrecy-veiled characters who end up trading their mystique for illusory depth. This is why sequels never outdo the source material. The extraneous exposition they require is often detrimental to the mystery surrounding the boogeyman and thus, our fear of the unknown is no longer solicited. Only our curiosity is.

The funny thing about curiosity is that it is interesting only insofar as it is not quenched totally. When one of the universe's dark secrets is unveiled, not only isn't it horrific anymore, but it isn't interesting anymore either. Same thing with the dreaded Lament Configuration. As an item bought with a bundle of bills in a Maghreb café, it preserves a certain mystique that almost makes it desirable. Its appeal to the enterprising traveler remains the same as that of unexplored regions of the world. But as a commissioned work carefully dated and tagged as a museum exhibit, it becomes nothing more than a dusty artifact to be shelved. Its nature shifts away from the realm of tales and legends into the rigidly academic domains of history and archeology.

Launching the box into space

doesn't make it more interesting

This wouldn't be so bad if Peter Atkin's work was consistent. But considering how many angles he used to develop the mythology and find half-assed ways to resurrect Pinhead and his minions, we tend to see only the glaring contradictions thus surfacing and not the glimpses of genius injected in every single of his screenplays. This creates an heterogeneous whole that seems to isolate each of the films in the series within its own set of rules. While this is not a bad thing in itself, it makes it hard for enduring fans to really discern who's who within Hell. In this film, Angélique is presented as a demon princess, whom is meant to have known Pinhead personally prior to her conjuration. Many questions come to mind once this fact is established. First of all, we cannot help but wonder how the royal castes of Hell are organized. In Hellbound, Hell is depicted as a mostly empty labyrinth ruled by a rotating prism named Leviathan. Are we meant to believe that Angélique is Leviathan's daughter? And if so, how did Leviathan reproduce? This question is only mildly puzzling if you consider the blatant inconsistencies in the timeline. If Pinhead was transformed into a Cenobite during WWI, how is it that he knows Angélique? I'm sure that there is some sort of explanation for all this, but I just know that it involves a great measure of "film logic". These inconsistencies are not a problem in themselves, but considering how the sole interest of this fourth film lies in broadening our knowledge of the Hellraiser world, they become very bothersome. By trying to make a quick buck on the spectator's back, the producers of this film have neutered the ambition to really expand on the mythology by crafting a film as large in scope as it appeared to be on paper. Instead, they have crafted an entirely forgettable, entirely useless film.

For God's sake, stick to the first film
I have seen my fair share of Hellraiser films by now, and although each new title somehow manages to titillate my curiosity, I always end up being underwhelmed by what I see. Despite consistently weird imagery and a certain inclination toward genuine nastiness, the many sequels spawned by Clive Barker's original film always come up short in terms of spectator involvement as well as in the screenwriting department. The lack of creativity shown by Barker's collaborator Atkins, his over-reliance on the uni-dimensional Cenobites as well as the ever-changing production design all contribute to the lackluster aspect of these sequels. Thankfully, new penmen Boardman and Derrickson added some new blood to the series with Hellraiser: Inferno, turning out a surprisingly tolerable Christian-minded horror film in the process. But this is not nearly enough to refill the gas tank.

If there's any advice to convey here, it's that you should simply stick to the original film. It's the only one that makes any sense, and it is the only one which is truly involving. The sequels are fun for a sit, but they don't transcend the genre like the original did. And they don't seem to even comprehend what made the source material so great. Lust, desire, whatever you may call Frank and Julia's motivations, these were deeply human and deeply tragic emotions. They held the narrative up and into the stellar backdrop of horror excellence. What followed is a bunch of soulless rehashes showing horror without managing to horrify us, let alone make us care.

1,5/5 Despite obvious ambitiousness and some glimpses of genius, this film remains the brainchild of its producers: a lackluster, confusing Pinhead vehicle.