This
tedious, self-defeating adaptation of Stephen King’s eponymous short story
(originally published in the March 1977 issue of Penthouse) probably owes its
overreaching cultural influence to a particularly intriguing premise, because
it certainly doesn’t stem from anything else within. And while the film’s
memorable introduction launches it with a bang, it only does so to better
plunge the remaining narrative into utter irrelevance as every interesting
issue is systematically underplayed to better suit the narrow needs of a
surprisingly uninspired screenplay. With developments as barren as the ghost
town they vie to depict and the a main attraction consisting of a tedious game
of cat and mouse through corn-filled dirt roads, the viewer is increasingly
underwhelmed until he is subjected to the film’s final insult, a supernatural
ending that swiftly unbolts all the socio-political implications that could’ve
saved the whole thing from oblivion.
The story
starts with the premeditated “cleansing” of the Nebraskan town of Gatling by a
pack of indoctrinated children who swarm and execute all of their adults
counterparts in a bid to please some pagan deity dubbed “He Who Walks Behind
the Rows”. In a powerful early scene, coffee mugs are spiked with poison,
knives and scythes draw fountains of blood and mutilated corpses fall heavily
around young narrator Job as he ducks and cover under the counter of a busy
local café on a bright Sunday morning. The carnage is at once repulsive and
mesmerizing, and a chilling reminder of the brainwashing effects of organized
religion. Unfortunately, the film has no grander purpose for its early
cautionary warning, quickly resorting to lowbrow scare tactics in order to
drag the narrative all the way toward a highly unsatisfying twist ending.
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| Gatlin. The absolute dead centre of nowhere. |
Cut to three
years later as a traveling young couple (Peter Horton and Linda Hamilton in a
early starring role) is stuck in the heartland of America, cruising through
endless Nebraskan cornfields and jokingly listening to radio evangelists
endlessly preaching repentance. Their monotonous trip comes to a grinding halt
however, when they run over a dying young man who’s just been knifed after
trying to flee from the grasp of underage cult leader Isaac, who is now lord
and master of Gatling, which he rules with an iron hand with the help of
towering red-headed lackey Malachai. Evidently, the two young protagonists
immediately decide to seek police assistance in trying to solve the issue. But
after brushing with a particularly unhelpful gas station attendant, they take
several mysterious wrong turns through the cornfields and end up smack in the
middle of deserted Gatling, where they roam around for the better part of the
film, gathering many disturbing clues as to the fate of its inhabitants, but
only piecing them together once Malachai has sufficiently closed in to entirely compromise their escape.
After reading
the source material, reprinted in Night Shift along with several other
influential short stories, I was amazed by the self-defeating nature of the
present adaptation, which sacrifices King’s intriguing narrative progression
for intangible benefits. And while the initial story structure wasn’t fraught
with originality, it made earnest attempts to involve the reader in a deepening
mystery by making him partake only in the couple’s experience. Progressively
witnessing their accidental collision with a bloodied boy, their timid venture
into the heart of Gatling and their subsequent brush with a bevy of feral children,
our awe grew constantly with each new revelation, slowly preparing us for the
climactic sacrifice scene. But seeing how the film version opens with the brutal
revelation of the mystery’s crux, we become immediately uninvolved with the
unfolding of the narrative, put instead in the arduous position of waiting for
the inevitable outburst of juvenile violence. What’s worse is that the film is
structured very much like a mystery, with many stalker shots constantly proving
useless as their origin can be ascertained with sharp precision. The reasons
for this narrative transgression is never made very explicit, save to say
that it allows the casting of two “sympathetic” children meant to soften the
blow of teenage bloodlust and to provide some unneeded background
information. The decision to have one of the latter children provide the
voice-over narration is equally dubious since said narration is not sustained
throughout and also proves detrimental to the unfolding of the mystery.
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| See Linda Hamilton in a early role... and weep for this "mother of the future". |
Further
impairing the original story is the nature of the two protagonist’s
relationship within the world of the film. Whereas the literary Burt and Vicky
were a married couple experiencing a falling-out and trying to patch things up
with a trip to California, Horton and Hamilton’s characters are the usual
lovebirds of such familiar narratives, with their harmonious understanding
providing none of the initial tension present in the short story, while making
them predictably impervious to death. Hence the disturbing radio preaching to which
they are first subjected now appears nearly comical as they reflect on it with
the joyous carelessness of wholesome Yankees. There’s nothing implicitly
menacing now, nothing to help create a well-needed form of dread. And while the
expected spectacle of teenage brutality may appear disturbing enough, its
signifiers are so explicit as to stand out like sore thumbs out of white,
undifferentiated narrative plaster. In the end, the only thing on which the
story manages to thrive is the young couple’s ineptitude and shocking
inability to draw any form of synthetic conclusion from the large amount of
proof available to them.
The film’s
most disturbing narrative shortcoming however, lies in its stubborn recourse to
supernatural horror in order to explain the children’s actions. And while these
supernatural elements are an integrant part of the original story, they greatly
compromise the film’s potential for relevant socio-political discourse. Being
originally meant as a simple shocker, the film could’ve easily updated on
King’s work to forward more complex themes, namely by making He Who Walks
Behind the Rows an intangible being, and not a simple entity to be thwarted
through some dubious narrative gymnastics. In turn, this could’ve allowed us to
appraise some of the psychological subtleties inherent to faith and the
fearsome power of suggestion held by pulpit pit bulls from the American
Midwest. Personally, I was thrilled to see young Isaac first command his troops
through a simple nod of his head, wordlessly okaying the massacre of the town’s
adults in a chilling display of undue authority. To me, that simple chain of
events perfectly exemplified the inner workings of religious extremism, with a
charismatic leader imposing his whims on a bevy of mindless followers from a
comfortable distance, never actually bloodying his own hands in the process.
Unfortunately, once his deity is revealed in a tangible form, the very
connotation of faith is irremediably corrupted and the pressing question of
choice is brutally stricken from the story, hence taking the human factor out
of what should’ve been a truly human tragedy.
Personally, I think that the
power of religion is fearsome precisely because its entire basis is founded on
faith alone, with the myriad interpretations of religion texts providing
myriads possibilities for sectarian extremities and the charisma of privileged
few proving to be a potent weapon against the entire world. But above all,
religion can only be understood as a complex relationship of power, making
faith not a static form of enslavement, but a willed choice! Any simpler
readings are not only ineffective, but nearly misanthropic in their refusal to account for the uncanny power of human will. Other supernatural
occurrences further provide the film with shocking narrative shortcuts, such as
when Burt and Vicky undertake a loopy trip through the cornfields, moving
around in circles until they are forced to reach the town center.
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| Isaac's removed leadership is strangely similar to that of Midwestern pulpit pit bulls. |
Visually
speaking, the film leaves us very little on which to feast, with director
Kiersch’s impersonal and inexpressive mise-en-scène, his first feature attempt
in the professional arena, merely managing to link one empty scene with the
next. And while the opening carnage sequence is absolutely chilling, the rest
merely proceeds from the juxtaposition of dusty tableaux featuring a cast of
unlikable, underdeveloped characters moving around bland decors filled with
dusty corn husk. As for little Sarah’s ominous crayon drawings, which litter the
scenery like so many clues brazenly wavered to help us make sense of a
transparent mystery, they contribute a certain sense of dread to the ensemble,
being at once naïve and fearsome depictions of the atrocities perpetrated by
Isaac’s followers, sort of an illuminated storybook for the unenlightened. Most other prominent elements of set design, including the ghastly interiors of the
church and that clever corncob crucifix, are only cheap variations on
King’s original design.
Further
defusing the film is a bevy of abrasive characters portrayed by an uneven cast
of newcomers. Flanked with an ineffectual husband figure, a far cry from the
resourceful and moody ex-soldier originally envisioned by King, Linda
Hamilton’s onscreen persona lacks the uplifting assertiveness that she is well
known for since her role in the Terminator films (1984, 1991), proving to be no
more than the expected damsel in distress and bargaining chip for the
infuriated children in their attempts to corral Burt for sacrifice. As for
sympathetic children Job and Sarah, they appear as little more than obligatory
add-ons, forming an unnecessary bridge between the murderous youths roaming the fields and the two vapid protagonists. With the shrill voice and
diminutive stature of main antagonist Isaac preventing him from conveying any
sort of actual menace, even with the disturbing efficiency of his nonsensical
preaching, red-headed sidekick Malachai proves to be the only memorable character left in
the roster. Being the only youth to openly challenge Isaac’s authority, he is
also one of the most interesting and complex characters out there, one who
capitalizes on his manly stature and ruthless handling of blades to create a
distinct, and absolutely crucial sense of terror to the story.
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| The film's set design is a far cry from King's original vision, with lots of corn husk thrown in for looks. |
Children of
the Corn is a newcomer’s film and this should account for most of its
shortcomings. Working with a cast of inexperienced youths, the unseasoned
production team (including director Kiersch and screenwriter George Goldsmith)
unfortunately couldn’t refrain from making costly narrative and dramatic
mistakes that irremediably sabotaged a project with definite potential. And while
the film was a surprise hit, generating box office revenues equal to more than
15 times its original budget while spawning a whopping seven sequels, this is
hardly ground for you to take a peek and risk losing your eyes to protruding
corn husk. For anyone who is manically drawn to the film’s premise, I suggest
you read King’s story or watch South Park episode The Wacky Molestation
Adventure instead, the latter of which provides a well-needed moral lesson absent from
the present film.
1/5 Watching this irremediably flawed
Stephen King adaptation is far less exciting than walking through cornfields
for an hour and a half.
