Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon (2006)

While analyzing David Cronenberg's Rabid (see Revenge of the Phallic Woman) is when I first contemplated the idea of interpenetration as a solution to the gender paradigm. If you remember Marilyn Chambers' character from the film, you will probably remember the phallic syringe concealed in her armpit and its usefulness in re-imagining the porn star as a sexual predator. Although it seemed obvious to me that this phallic appendage represented the monstrosity of men, I was surprised to come across a plethora of contrary interpretations from various feminist authors. Anchored in mostly paternalistic, early psychoanalytical theories, these interpretations strangely vied to criticize Rabid for its insensitivity toward women when it is actually akin to a feminist manifesto. The film's incredible lenience toward the innocent protagonist-turned-monster (named Rose, no less), its insistence on the folly of male scientists (a typical Cronenbergian motif) and the punitive nature of the murders committed by Rose, all of these elements should lead one to a unequivocal interpretation thereof. But they don't, since psychoanalysis is now desperately impregnable in its pragmatic use by biased interest groups.

Evidently, the horror genre is a popular target for feminist psychoanalysis. Understood as a primarily "chauvinist" genre by many people, it is either dismissed categorically as a lesser art form, or intellectually broken down into bare components, which are then dipped in acidic verbose. Unfortunately, the vast majority of its detractors, in their ideological zeal, fail to see the most obvious, most revealing aspects thereof.  If we're to trust scholars, then every knife ever used in slasher films is an expression of phallic violence, which itself makes female empowerment subservient to that violence (with the heroine's appropriation of the killer's weaponry). Hence, psychoanalysis would tend to prove the secondary importance of women within the genre. But that is the biggest lie of all. Aside from the obvious fact that slasher films systematically star female heroines, these films also systematically showcase impotent antagonists and useless male protectors who die without a fuss. And while the male killer could be said to be the real star of the film, he is usually subservient to the survivor girl for whom he exists only as a catalyst toward self-determination.

Psychoanalytical appreciation of David
Cronenberg's Rabid is very problematic.

This all-encompassing thesis on slasher films might appear dubious to some, but it is quite well-defended by Scott Glosserman's genre gem Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon, which manages to successfully integrate elements of the horror, the documentary and the romantic comedy genres to create a highly complex manifesto on the power of symbols. Basking in psychoanalytical savvy, the film effortlessly deconstructs the slasher sub-genre by positing a series of codes inherent to its construction, codes that might appear obvious to the seasoned horror fan, but which are also cleverly used to help awaken the female protagonist to the idea of the that genre as an essential expression of social angst. Hence, the central discussion about phallic and yonic symbolism is cleverly used to reveal the subtle interplay of gender referents hiding behind the crude representations of sexes, which the average critic will cite as a shortcoming. Even if the film was merely an analytical exercise in appraising horror cinema, then it would be great enough. But Glosserman also delves quite brilliantly in the codes inherent to the documentary genre as well, articulating his narrative around the ethics of non-intervention. In doing so, he proves to be a surprisingly savvy film scholar and practitioner. But what is perhaps his biggest achievement is how he manages to create an absolutely symbiotic, violently passionate love story at the center of it all, one that shatters the conventional conceptions of the slasher sub-genre like so many wooden poles caught in a nuclear blast.

The film opens with live shots from famous slasher locales where tragic massacres have occurred throughout the years (Crystal Lake, Haddonfield, and Elm Street, where muscular Kane Hodder scurries inside his house as the camera approaches). That's right. Behind the Mask is set in a world where supernatural murderers are real, casting a tangible shadow over their victims and prompting uptight journalism student Taylor Gentry and her unsightly crew of helpers to investigate. When contacted by mysterious loner Leslie Vernon, who offers them rare insight into his own murderous activities, the team heads for the small town of Glen Echo, where an all-new rampage is about to take place. Using shots bearing the "University News" stamp at first, the film quickly shifts gears and uses the rushes taken by the young filmmakers to narrate their story. That's when we are introduced to charismatic newcomer (and stage actor) Nathan Baesel, who plays Leslie Vernon, the mild-mannered psycho whom we will follow through his elaborate massacre prep.

Kane Hodder as an "Elm Street Resident": Glosserman
cleverly introduces a world in which slashers are real.

Leslie is a cool guy with smarts to boot. He loves turtles and is revealed to be a very dedicated professional on his way to becoming another legendary slasher. When asked if his in-depth study of the heavy reference manuals found in his library is job-related, Leslie chuckles and declares: "I wouldn't recommend reading Grey's Anatomy for kicks". If that joke is lost on the uneasy reporter that is Taylor, it is certainly not lost on us, and thus the narrative takes hold, with candid Taylor and the viewer sitting at opposite sides of the spectrum. Leslie's next moves are all obligatory as we assist him in picking out a target group of victims, a convenient location where to massacre them and a proper anchor for his legend. Thanks to a well-rounded cast of supporting characters, including a retired slasher (Scott Wilson) and his survivor girlfriend, a Loomis-like investigator played by Robert Englund and an elderly librarian played by Zelda Rubinstein, the pieces of the puzzle slowly fall into place, making the prelude to a gory massacre a wholly enjoyable, convivial experience. Not realizing what they're truly in for, the three reporters partake in the whole operation with a certain measure of glee. But that glee quickly evaporates once the killing starts and they finally see themselves for what they are, namely the willing accomplices of a killer about to slaughter innocent high school students.

While it cleverly dabbles in the common grounds of the slasher sub-genre, thanks in part to a two-tier method of storytelling that mixes subjective shots taken from the reporters' cameras and atmosphere-heavy theatrical shots, the film also covers the academic debate surrounding the legitimacy of the genre as a symbolic mode of representation. But it does so in such a level-headed way as to obliterate the verbose of essayists for the greater satisfaction of the common people. "She's empowering herself with cock", says Leslie of the slasher heroine reaching for a long slashing weapon in one of the casual interviews to which he is subjected. While this is obvious to anyone who has the slightest interest in psychoanalysis, the wording used here brings the entire theory to street level. And it does so not only as a superficial reflection on the sub-genre, but as part of a complex narrative canvas that prefigures the end of the ideological dead-end stemming from rigidly psychoanalytical readings of slasher films. Because while it exposes the mechanics of sexual symbolism within the genre, it does so in regards to a caricature. The symbolic imagery it uses might be quite explicit, such as the alley in the orchard representing the vaginal passage through which the heroine is "born again" (a pun made famous by Peter Jackson in Bad Taste), but it is only so in order to draw attention to the automatic conclusions stemming from the mindless adherence to psychoanalytical interpretation. As such, it is a welcome remedy to the bitter and often self-defeating academic debate concerning the legitimacy of horror.

Through casual discussion, Behind the Mask bares
not only the serial killer, but also the
scholarly detractors of the horror genre.

Obviously, the slasher film is a fairly transparent affair as it proceeds from a set of prefabricated characters and situations, making its dissection a slightly dubious feat. Fortunately, the film finds additional depth in its appraisal of documentary cinema and its crucial ethical implications, especially in regards to non-intervention. Explored earlier in C'est arrivé près de chez vous (1992), another film starring young filmmakers who befriend a vicious serial killer, this idea of non-intervention under fire is constantly relevant here, as Leslie's actions are becoming increasingly reprehensible as the narrative unfolds. That idea has actually obsessed filmmakers since the beginning of the last century, when the first cameras were taken to the battlefields of Europe. Are documentary filmmakers mere witnesses of the action (like the flies on the wall idealized by a certain current of direct cinema) or are they part of it? When given the opportunity to save lives, are they morally obliged to do so, or is their testimony too valuable? In the present context, this question is essential as the need to unbolt the slasher mythos is constantly at odds with the necessity to prevent the slasher's actions. It even provides the crucial plot twist necessary to propel the  narrative into its gory final act. This happens when Leslie slips out of Taylor's frame and murders his first two victims, the muffled moans of which are accompanied on the soundtrack by typically clunky, outrageous stabbing sounds. We don't get to see the actual slashing, but we can imagine it quite easily. At this point is when the film crew finally dissociates itself from Leslie's actions by joining the side of heroes, thus emerging from their stupor and doing "the right thing". Consequently, the film's aesthetics change to accommodate the change in philosophy, dropping the subjective camera for the horror camera, and allowing the film to organically end in true slasher fashion. So the film ultimately proves to be not only a relevant meditation on both the horror and documentary genres, but a brilliant intertextual interpretation of those two genres. Quite a commendable feat for such a lowbrow effort.

(The following paragraph contains spoilers.)
Brilliant intertextual interpretations aside, the film also makes a revolutionary contribution to the slasher sub-genre by highlighting a typically underplayed aspect thereof, namely the love story between the psychotic killer and the survivor girl, further proving its under-appreciated  tragic nature. Aside from the fact that his mentor, a crotchety retired killer, is living with a loving survivor girl, Leslie's own infatuation with Taylor provides a powerfully endearing ending that seems to redeem the entire sub-genre. Usually, the murderous slasher is a sexually deviant individual plagued by an unhealthy fixation for the female protagonist, his murderous endeavor being a mere last ditch effort to compensate for his sexual shortcomings. But what if that killer was a clever, gallant gentleman with a genuine desire to liberate the heroine? Then, you'd suddenly have a respectable outlet for the unrequited love of inadequate men. Luckily, Leslie is just that kind of killers. In one of the later scenes of the film, he is seen putting the finishing touches on his costume under the watchful eye of an oblivious Taylor. With Midnight, the Stars and You playing on a cranky gramophone in the background, he suddenly starts shedding tears of joy as he envisions the breadth of his final gift to Taylor. Clumsily trying to comfort Leslie, it is her who eventually makes this a truly romantic scene, freezing their wondrous embrace in time. And thus the film introduces a radical new interpretation of the murderous slasher. Desperately infatuated with the survivor girl, he is actually a romantic soul willing to viciously murder people and ultimately sacrifice himself for her sake, allowing her subsequent liberation from the shackles of uncertainty, doubt and fear. This makes him a selfless, noble and eminently tragic character. But most importantly, it makes him something that critics rarely see in him, namely a true lover of women.

What better anchor into the world of horror
than an elderly Zelda Rubinstein? 

Behind the Mask is somewhat of a cool oddity: a clever hybrid of the documentary and horror genres. It was a tough gamble to make, but I must say that director Glosserman passes the test with flying colors. He is obviously a very savvy film connoisseur who perfectly understands the symbolic power of cinema, lovingly framing horror icons Robert Englund and Zelda Rubinstein and combining the main tenets of both genres in an explosion of intellectual brilliance. And despite its scholarly appeal, the result remains sufficiently lowbrow to please any film fan, no matter his personal preferences. A total success by any stretch of the imagination.

4/5  This cleverly self-reflexive documentary slasher should appeal to any film fan, no matter their creed.

X: The Man With X-Ray Eyes (1963)

Despite the absence of his typical tongue-in-cheek humor, B-series mogul Roger Corman manages to infuse this campy science run amok romp with a distinct sense of fun, using the Spectarama gimmick to great impressionistic effect, and having thespian Ray Milland deliver snappy lines of dialogue and succulent theatrics with equal ease. Of course, no real attempt is made to introduce actual sci-fi elements to the story, nor is the narrative particularly inventive, but there remains a solid effort from the undying master of American genre cinema and one of his key efforts as a director.

Oscar-winner Ray Milland gives a stern but affective
performance as the titular tortured soul.

In this typical cautionary tale against the excesses of scientific upheaval, Oscar-winner Ray Milland stars as Dr. James Xavier, a brilliant physician who recently developed eye drops allowing man to "see the whole wave spectrum". A pragmatic man at heart, Xavier is undeterred by the death of a test monkey, subsequently choosing to use the experimental medicine on himself. Immediately gifted with increased visual capabilities, depicted by the subjectively-framed breakdown of the light spectrum into its composing specs, he is soon able to see through opaque surfaces. Momentarily peering through the clothes of co-star Diana Van der Vlis and diagnosing heart diseases without using any tool, Xavier seems well on the path to becoming a superhuman. Unfortunately, the loss of his research grant puts a halt on his continuing experimentations, rendering him unable to control his endlessly growing power. It also pushes him toward the edge, prompting him to accidentally kill a fellow M.D. during an outburst of theatrics, and subsequently forcing him into exile. After a brief stint as as sideshow attraction, he ultimately returns to the city in search of funds to pursue his research. Unfortunately, his growing addiction to the medicine forces him into a tragic predicament that will eventually leave him blind. After all, "if thine eye offend thee..."

Not unlike many other Castle/Corman productions of the 1950s/1960s, this film focuses on one central gimmick: Spectarama. Used to convey Xavier's visual landscape, this "filming technique" proceeds exclusively from the use of campy subjective shots featuring various objects, usually fraught with shimmering special effects, delineated by a round frame meant to simulate the protagonist's iris. This technique is slightly overused throughout the film, a lazy crotch on which to ease the weight of the narrative, but it produces many intriguing effects, not the least of which is the sudden revelation of nude socialites or the imaginary cross-section of medical patients. It also allows for mesmerizing light play, such as when the screen is decomposed into shimmering specs of red, green and blue or when the Las Vegas neon signs create an impressionistic panorama of Sin City. It also allows Corman to showcase his legendary economy of means. In one such instance, we see the city through the eyes of Dr. Xavier, a collection of naked girders and construction sites meant to emulate the sight of skeletal architecture as exposed by the drug, prompting Milland to indulge in a sudden flight of lyricism about the "undone" nature of the city. This allows us not only to partake directly into the protagonist's plight, but also to enjoy an impressionistic spectacle exclusive to cinematic expression.

The Spectarama gimmick creates an impressionist
account of the protagonist's experience.

As for the Robert Dillon/Ray Russell screenplay, it is filled with snappy dialogue delivered with zeal by a cast of distinguished actors. The central love story is somewhat unconvincing and underplayed, but the interactions between characters always remain concise and evocative. Milland is appropriately endearing as the idealistic man of science opposite of Diana Van der Vlis, who provides a surprisingly strong female lead as another ambitious doctor. Aside from the two leads, the film benefits from the help of former comedian Don Rickles in one of his early roles. Casted as a cunning sideshow promoter, the balding middle-aged sensation alternates naive candor and petty wickedness with ease, creating a truly involving antagonistic character out of a dated "sideshow sleaze" archetype. Further distinguished cast members include veterans Harold J. Stone, Jon Hoyt and Dick Miller in a diminutive, but soulful part as a skeptic young heckler attending the performance of Xavier's psychic alter-ego Mentalo.

Pulpy by nature, the film does not delve into actual sci-fi themes, propelled as it is by the very hokey suggestion of "seeing radiation" and ultimately using the reference to God only as an opportunistic vector of dramatic power. Early in the film, fellow Dr. Sam Brant warns Xavier about the fact that "only the gods see everything" to which the latter replies: "My dear doctor, I'm closing in on the gods". Obviously, this exchange is meant to expose the irresistible lure of forbidden knowledge, but it also hints at the inevitable demise of Icarus who, after flying too close to the sun, lost his makeshift wings and died an all-too human death. In that sense, the wandering chapel setting used in the final scene perfectly sets the stage for Xavier's climactic self-abuse, reminding us that only God is meant to have Godly powers. As for the scientific elements contained in the narrative, they are tainted by a timely but irresistible candor that infuses the film with some definite lasting power as a cult item.

Former comedian Don Rickles admirably complements Ray
Milland's performance by portraying an antagonistic con man.

In the end, while Corman herein trades black humor for a potent sci-fi gimmick, thus brushing with the spectacular world of William Castle, he sacrifices none of his cost-effective production techniques, nor does he concede any terrain to sheer cinematic enjoyment. His narrative is constantly intriguing and each of his characters is absolutely picturesque. With plenty of spectacular visual effects to boot, The Man With X-Ray Eyes proves to be a prime example of b-series proficiency, not only as an economical staple of former Hollywood, but a true display of genuine movie magic.

3.5/5  Encompassing all of Corman's cost-effictive filmmaking savvy and knack for endearing storytelling, this simple gimmick film is a testament to the sheer enjoyability of cinema in the early days of television.

The Hills Have Eyes (2006)

At first glance, it seems that this appalling remake has no raison d'être other than Hollywoodian avariciousness. Sporting nearly identical villains, locales and narrative threads, it feels like a glossy reproduction of the original rather than an honest reworking. And while the slick new production values allow for more realistic monstrosity and elaborate new sets, they remain purely cosmetic updates on what is now a truly tired premise. It's only when the viewer lingers on the film's radical new politics of exclusion and chauvinism that the project finally finds meaning. And so the illusion of uselessness vanishes to reveal something much worse: pamphleteering hatred disguised as entertainment.

For me, the very idea of this new Hills Have Eyes meant a double blow to the head, being at once a travesty of Wes Craven's gritty source material and an irresistible bait for beloved director Alexandra Aja. Flown in from France only to unearth and gloss over a dusty old cult item, the man behind the unforgettable Haute Tension had thus become yet another money-making cog in the Hollywoodian sausage machine. It's a real shame too, since his entire creative team (complete with returning collaborators Grégory Levasseur and Baxter) were now hired as thoughtless restorers, repackaging cheap old material for profitable resale, but draining all its life energy in the process.  Here, the crisp photography and princely art direction contribute only to evacuate the original film's glib atmosphere, creating a shimmering spectacle out of what was a raw expression of horror. The same can be said about the slick new "fallout" mutants, unsightly creatures meant to elicit immediate hatred and the convenient signifiers of an historical mistake that needs to be undone. Fitted with a brutal new introduction, but deprived of some crucial later screen time, these monstrous new antagonists are a mere visual aid to help convey the film's apology of war-mongering hatred. Concision is also sacrificed here as this new version runs almost 20 minutes longer to include an intricate new finale that grotesquely hammers home its heinous contentions about the enemies of America. In fact, the entire exaltation of retaliatory violence conveyed by Aja's film comes in stark contrast with Craven's initial condemnation thereof, making the two iterations not twins but complete opposites.

Mutants are people too, y'know...

You should know exactly what to expect from this heap of garbage even before the opening credits start to roll. In their infinite misanthropy, the producers have indeed judged it necessary to tack on a new introduction allowing them to exalt physical determinism in order to ease us into their Manichean outlook on life. If one recalls the introductory shot of Craven's film, he will simply be reminded of silent hills at dusk, the intricacies of which merely hint at the presence of lurking monsters. And while it is crudely filmed, there's a certain subtlety to it, which is found completely lacking in the remake. Here, we are actually shown a white on black title card that reads:

"Between 1945 and 1962 the United States conducted 331 atmospheric nuclear tests. Today, the government still denies the genetic effects caused by the radioactive fallout..."

And as if that ominous warning was not sufficient to let us in on the overdetermined nature of the new "eyes in the hills", the following scene features a bunch of health officials in bio-hazard suits being brutally attacked by a hulking mutant wielding a pickaxe. Puncturing their flesh with the heavy steel pick, the villain then proceeds to lift their carcasses up above his head and smash them against rocks. While this sequence vies to provide the viewer with additional information about the film's antagonists, it actually obscures any attempt at a deeper understanding of their plight, using instead the dubious equation of monstrosity and nefariousness to pin them down as unrepentant antagonists. This point is hammered home with some evocative opening credits featuring archive footage of mushroom clouds and mutated fetuses. And while these images contribute to the film's overarching misanthropy by promoting physical determinism with the help of grating sound effects complementing the parade, their sheer pictorial quality leaves a lasting impression as a true testament to the horrors of nuclear warfare. And since they constitute the only novelty on display before the climactic confrontation, you might actually want to hang on to these images and cherish them.

After the credits, we are immediately thrown back unto the beaten path, with a strikingly similar Carter family halting their cross-country journey in a strikingly similar gas station as Craven's. And although the slick photography now gives a glamorous feel to the surrounding dirt roads and back houses, we feel right at home with what appears to be a returning cast of characters from a popular sitcom. I'm sure you remember the Carter family from before: Bob, Ethel, Lynn, Brenda, Bobby, Doug and their two dogs, Beauty and Beast, celebrating the parents' silver anniversary by going to California (and incidentally passing through the murderous New Mexico hills). The characters' names and their personas haven't changed much since the original film. The only difference is the fact that Lynn has now kept her maiden name after marrying Doug, remaining Lynn Carter instead of becoming Lynn Bukowski. Portrayed by a new cast of jobbers and TV actors (plus Ted Levine, whom I hardly recognized as the magnum-totting macho patriarch), these returning characters soon partake in a strikingly similar ordeal as their precursors. After deciding to take a dirt road through the hills, their trailer is ambushed and they are left stranded in inhospitable surroundings filled with prying mountain dwellers. When these unsightly barbarians brutally attack them, killing three and kidnapping Lynn and Doug's baby, the Carters rise up and decide to impose a similar brand of barbarity on their tormentors. In a nutshell, same family encounters same mutants in the same circumstances, leaving the horror fan biding his time until the final showdown in a decrepit fall-out town full of mutants. As for the slight variations in the story, they fail to alter the narrative progression significantly as they merely promote a sickly new angle from which to view pre-existing material.

Which version are we watching now?

If the present film is enlightening in any regard, it is with the spectacle of its ridiculous production history. Budgeted at 15,000,000$, roughly 60 times the amount it took to produce the original, this rich new remake perfectly exemplifies the shocking policies of Hollywoodian spend-o-crats. I mean, the film was shot in Morocco of all places! Morocco! What? Wasn't there any room left to shoot in New Mexico? Had promoters just bought the last stretch of land from California to Kansas? Perhaps it was that the producers couldn't find the ideal location to encompass their perfect vision of a mutant-led massacre. But then, couldn't they simply alter the screenplay instead of moving the entire film crew across the Atlantic? It's madness! And we're not talking about a naturalistic period piece here; we're talking about a shock-based horror film! I know this request to be futile, but couldn't B-series film be outfitted with B-series budgets? Doesn't that sound like a sound business decision?

I couldn't wrap my head around this at first. I couldn't think of any sound excuse to justify on-location shooting in Morocco. But then the dirty word "monopoly" came to mind, that is the possibility to spend money as absurdly as possible without ever risking to lose ground to your competitors. Such a warped conception of the free market economy is shockingly un-American, but then so is the widespread slavery to glamorous brand names that will keep Hollywood alive despite all of its past and future shortcomings. Personally, I think that promoting low-budget productions would be a fine way for Hollywood to recoup its losses from box office flops, further creating a pool of creative young talent to insure its sustainability. Just like in the good old days. For that to happen however, studio executives would have to relinquish some control over their productions and promote a diversity of styles and techniques, thus compromising the efforts of their marketing experts. But that will never happen. Not only is there no willingness to do so on the part of power-hungry studio heads, but there is no proper motivation either, since Hollywood is now "too big to fail" and remains completely untouched by the possibility of an eventual failure (government handouts being an easy and readily available solution in that event).

In the present case, a smaller crew working with natural settings could've easily done a better job at conveying horror and dread than the inflexible battalion actually at work on the project. And while big budgets and subsequent studio interference are obviously detrimental to the efficiency of any exploitation film, the very notion of "exploitation" tends to erode with the poisonous advent of political correctness. Actually, the staples of exploitation cinema are now being neutered and incorporated directly into the mainstream. This is exemplified by the recent apparition of the "torture porn" sub-genre. Absent from our vocabulary a mere twenty years back, this evocative new expression sums up both the exploitative nature and the viability of this  new trend as a commercial product. With the present film, we are given true insight as to the genre's actual power as object of mass consumption. Fitted with an underlying political message meant to aggressively stimulate the disintegrating patriotic fiber of bleeding-heart "liberals", the film was obviously made to corral as many viewers as possible under the banner of unabashed brutality. Hence it's polished look and vast marketing campaign. After all, everybody needs a glossy war poster for inspiration. Right?

Patriotic stabbings are a sure cure for left-wing apathy:

The Hills Have Eyes as war propaganda. 

Faced with such a soulless rehash, I found that using the war propaganda angle was actually the most satisfying way to give the film purpose and to analyze its dubious iconography. And while some may disagree with such a claim, the film contains ample evidence to support it, the search for which is the only worthy intellectual gymnastics allowed by this sorry exercise in repetition.  Released in March 2006, as support for the war in Iraq was hitting a nearly unprecedented low of 42%, the film uses crude  metaphors and the spectacle of primitive violence to elicit vengeful thoughts against the new enemies of the state, vying to stir up old passions amongst those who need it the most: Democrat pussies. Aside from the fact that the villains here are all mountain-dwelling guerilla fighters, the new screenplay contains a plethora of minute, but revealing updates meant to support a pro-war agenda:

a) The new opening scene. By equating physical difference with wickedness, the film crudely suggests that evil is only skin-deep, a simple matter of genetic differences between individuals. And while this straightforward sequence promotes a certain disdain for anything foreign, it also addresses the more revealing issue of American-made monstrosity. Being the result of military testing during the Cold War, the mutants here are the direct product of anti-Soviet American efforts. Which is exactly the same as Osama bin Laden and his clique, former Mujahideen fighters sponsored by the CIA to combat the Soviets in Afghanistan (as seen in Rambo III, another propaganda film meant to promote American interventionism abroad). And now, the mistakes of the past have come back to haunt us, and they need to be violently undone.

b) The premeditated nature of the Carters' accident. In Craven's film, Bob Carter insists on taking the scenic route through the hills and subsequently loses control of his vehicle during an argument with his wife. In the new version, the Carters are lured away from the main road by a cunning gas attendant, and their car is ambushed by the family of mutants. Thus, the antagonists' actions are now fully premeditated, and not simply circumstantial, leaving absolutely no nuance as to their nefarious intentions. Such a Manichean new outlook on the initial attack subsequently greatly helps warrant the Carters' retaliatory strike.

c) Doug's new left-wing persona. Being described onscreen as a left-wing "pussy" and thoroughly despised by tough patriarch Bob, son-in-law Doug is now characterized as a liberal softie. Mocked for his reverent attitude toward his wife (the man is said to have lost his balls to her) and his lack of proficiency with firearms, Doug has become a grotesque parody of Yankee war protesters. And while  he eventually finds redemption, it is only through primitive violence, "evolving" into the blood-soaked mass murderer of the final scene and "heroic" defender of traditional American values (family and country). This new iconography allows the film to question the actual moral rectitude of left-wing activists by confronting them with the perspective of foreign violence hitting home, their subsequent contention being that any human being would readily take arms to avenge the brutal death of his own family. Previously explored in Death Wish (1974) and other such conservative genre efforts, this intriguing idea is herein meant as a rallying cry for well-thinking, but uninvolved "liberals" who protest the war from a comfortable distance without grasping its more primitive origins.

The left-wing peace activist as "debunked" by
the people at beforeitsnews.com, where godsent
dreams are regarded as facts...

d) The new finale. Set in a nuclear test town from the 1950s, the climactic confrontation between Doug and the antagonistic mutants does not provide mere narrative closure, but a symbolic cleansing of hallowed ground. Featuring dusty old homesteads populated by limbless mannequins arranged in typical family scenes, the makeshift town has become a grotesque parody of Americana under the rule of the mutants, who mock tradition by transforming dinner tables in ghoulish canvas of rotting human flesh, making raunchy sculptures from disarticulated mannequins, filling meat lockers with pickled limbs, even cynically intoning the Star-Spangled Banner. Such shocking defilement is fortunately punished accordingly, with the death sentence happily carried out by shotgun-totting Doug and the Carter family dog, another traditional symbol and defender of American values.

e) The new ending. Contrary to the first, this new ending actually glamorizes the violence perpetrated by the protagonist. Originally comprised of a disturbing fade to red following a shot of Doug's distorted features as he clubs the last villain to death, the final few frames of the film now boast heroic trumpets sounding the return of the battered hero as he emerges from a wall of flames after vanquishing all the desert-dwelling mutants who threatened his family. This radical change in imagery provides the most salient break with the source material, which equated the protagonists' violence with that of the antagonists. Here, the protagonists' violence is validated by the antagonists', making the rationale of retaliatory war completely unproblematic.

f) The American flag. One of the most blatant new symbols in the film is the small American flag mounted on the Carter's truck. Stolen from the vehicle by the mutants and later stuck in the cranium of carbonized patriarch Bob in a grotesque mockery of his values, this flag is thus symbolically defiled by infidels. Luckily, it is later re-appropriated by Doug, and used to puncture the throat of an enemy, thus reclaiming its rightful place as defender of American values.

Restoring the veneer of the American flag is reason enough
to join the warpath. (This image was taken from right-wing
blog Moonbattery.com where you can learn more about
the treacherous nature of the American left-wing).

By using all of its narrative updates to promote the War on Terror, this reprehensible remake actually finds another function than its ability to generate money out of thin air, becoming a temporary war poster, but a lasting example of Hollywood's appropriation of dissident discourse. Yesterday, "exploitation" was a way for radical new voices to showcase the true extent of our freedom of speech, depicting violence not as something glamorous and romantic, but as something raw and primitive. During that era, young filmmakers used exploitation to show that revenge is a coin with two identical sides. Craven's The Last House on the Left and The Hills Have Eyes as well as other (rape-) revenge classics such as I Spit on your Grave (1978) made a direct equation of both the protagonists' and antagonists' barbarity, cleverly confronting us with the horror and uselessness of retaliatory violence and challenging our preconceptions about the actual worth of violence. Today, as exploitation is slowly seeping into mainstream culture, its aims are now regulated by the powers that be, causing the disappearance of such cautionary tales and the advent of a purely Manichean paradigm from which the roots of hatred can spring forth unchallenged.

1/5   Nearly identical to the original, the present remake brings nothing new to the table but a disturbing misanthropy. 

Robocop (2014)

It’s hard not to feel the sting of nostalgia when attending the sanitized multiplexes of today. With fantasy quickly seeping out of their stern façade to befit a dubious form of deceitful realism, and all of our cherished memories now being grinded into a gritty paste meant for uneventful digestion, us fans of cinematic excess are left to lumber like melancholy dinosaurs, watching helpless as vampiric corporations are relentlessly producing millions of standardized clones with the stolen DNA from old-time favorites, shamelessly producing wealth from the past efforts of truly inventive artisans. Given this story state of affairs, I was actually surprised to see how long it took for Paul Verhoeven’s 1987 hit Robocop to be given the “gritty reboot” treatment. Being a huge fan of the film, and its scathing critique of American consumer culture, I was happy to see it elude the jagged teeth of the Hollywoodian meat grinder. That is until the inevitable happened, and we were suddenly given a shimmering black new Robocop, glossed over endlessly to better draw attention away from its empty shell.

Released nearly two decades after the original, amidst growing political turmoil abroad and increasing concern with unethical technological upheaval, this new version could’ve easily provided a timely update on the original material, itself a cynical portrait of Reaganomics and the American arms race of the 1980s. And while Robocop 2014 is founded on a very intriguing premise involving military excess in the Middle East and the disturbing political power of American multinationals, the film is eventually dogged down by a lazy, self-indulgent screenplay that slowly transforms a potentially transcendent narrative into a neutered dud on the path to a contrived, action film finish (set on a helipad of all places).

MGM certainly tried hard to recapture many of the major tenets from the original hit, recycling its two most famous lines and memorable score with unabashed shame, but they ultimately lacked Verhoven’s cohesive vision, his biting humor, colorful direction, and every scrap of movie magic necessary to create a truly involving project from such an outlandish premise. The result is a schizoid entity made of two contradicting parts: a metaphysical treatise about free will in the face of rampant automatization and a simplistic revenge thriller with dull shades of sci-fi. With each important issue growing increasingly irrelevant and redundant until the uninspired final act, the spectator can only sulk as the whole ship sinks into the dark ocean of Hollywoodian eugenics, with talented thespians Gary Oldman and Jackie Earle Haley trying vainly to salvage it from oblivion.

Despite some inspired turns, Gary Oldman and Jackie
Earle Haley can't save the film on their own.

The film starts in similar fashion as the original by using a crude parody of right-wing American media in order both to lay out the basic tenets of the story in didactic fashion and to depict the dystopian society home to the story. However this time, none of Verhoeven’s trademark cheese is to be found, only a slick, impersonal stage unto which a stiff Samuel L. Jackson is hoisted as the unwavering flag-bearer of the American right. Using a copious amount of massive interactive screens, which he seamlessly handles to better help illustrate his self-serving drivel, Jackson hams it up in the glaring spotlight of what he calls “The Novak Report”, rambling on about the need to bring home Omnicorp’s brand of military androids to better help safeguard American streets from rampant crime. He then goes on to air an on-location report in occupied Iran to better demonstrate what he feels is the efficiency of combat machines in promoting peace and safety abroad. 

The film subsequently attains a dramatic high by depicting the reality of machine-controlled military hegemony in the Middle East. Battalions of humanoid androids and heavily armed bipedal tanks (recycled ED-209 from the original film) are seen roaming the streets of Tehran, scanning terrorized civilians lined up in front of their homes in search of elusive terrorists. When such terrorists do manifest, we can only watch and cry as they strap bombs around their chest and hopelessly rush forward in a desperate attempt to take out the soulless killers in their midst and draw international attention to their plight. When a disenfranchised teen joins the onslaught, throwing his explosive body unto the cold shell of a roving tank, I felt a bitter tear roll down my face, the very same tear that I shed over and over when learning about dead Middle Eastern kids. The realistic nature of the opening scene and the shocking inhumanity of right-wing American pundits that it depicts are just that powerful, and a chilling reminder of just how horrible the world has now become under the paternalistic embrace of the United States. Unfortunately, the film never reaches such dramatic highs again, its razor-sharp edge being slowly dulled by the need to forward the story from one stand-alone scene to the next.

Momentarily exiting the realm of Pat Novak, only to be confronted with a world filled with even more interactive screens, we soon learn the reasons for the absence of robotic law enforcement in the US. Apparently, some high-minded senator has passed a bill prohibiting the recourse to robots as upholders of human law. His rationale is simple: a machine will see nothing objectionable with the slaughter of children, pulling the trigger while intellectually unable to grasp the value of human life. Obviously, there is a certain amount of hypocrisy involved in promoting life-preserving laws that apply exclusively to US citizens, but that’s keeping in line with almost all of the actual American foreign policies. And while these laws originally prevent robotics mogul Raymond Sellars (Michael Keaton) from landing lucrative security contracts with American concerns, it also spurs his Machiavellian brain, which quickly hatches of a foolproof plan to bypass national legislation. That plan is Robocop, a man/machine hybrid with a sufficient sensibility to dispel all ethical concerns with automated law enforcement. 

Thanks to some lazy developments, the film's
breathtaking overture soon fades out of mind.

Chosen as the guinea pig for Sellars' revolutionary moneymaking gimmick is tough cop Alex Murphy (Joel Kinnaman), whose recent brush with an influential mobster has left him the crippled victim of a brutal car bombing. Hoisting the slim remainders of his body into a cold robotic shell is empathic Dr. Dennett Norton (Gary Oldman), who bickers with fellow engineer Rick Mattox (Jackie Earle Haley) about the efficiency of organics in the process of robotics engineering. When the actual proficiency of Robocop is disproven by Mattox in a series of strenuous simulations, Norton is forced to alter his program, removing all human decision from strategic defense mechanisms, effectively giving his creation the “illusion of free will”. And while this is one of the film’s most intriguing concepts, it is never used to produce any sort of dramatic effect. Instead, we are ultimately given a soulless avenger for which the very notion of free will is irrelevant. This happens when Detroit’s voluminous crime databank is uploaded directly into Alex's brain, causing him to snap and go on a hectic crime-solving spree that lazily propels the narrative through the later part of the film, and all the way past a rather uneventful climax.

Running a full two hours, this new Robocop film features a rather dense narrative that is filled to the brim with intriguing ideas, relevant philosophical interrogations and effective jabs at the American right. Unfortunately, none of these elements are ever bundled in a cohesive whole, living and dying a short life as mere afterthoughts in a busy screenplay that is more concerned with pleasing everybody than actually exploring its more intriguing concepts to their full extent. This unfortunately creates a mixed bag of heterogeneous ideas, hesitantly thrown together to artificially broaden the film's appeal, with each relevant issue being systematically underplayed in order to "go on to the next idea". Hence, the terrifying depiction of American interventionism present in the opening scene is given absolutely no follow-up and the whole critique of military interference is subsequently flushed down the drain, along with scraps of the “free will” issue, which are imperiously brushed aside to promote the showcase of mindless action scenes near the film’s conclusion. By setting up such a vast net to catch the maximal amount of fish, the screenwriters involved here were obviously keen to give drama fans a semblance of tragic substance, while titillating sci-fi fans with tantalizing metaphysics and throwing in some bland gunfights to please the action crowd, never realizing that they were actually creating a schizoid brainchild in the process.

Using a clean, nearly surgical break in the narrative, the film actually plays out over two distinctive and nearly independent acts, one dedicated to Robocop’s background, the other being the mere exposition of his retribution, spurred on by the aforementioned glitch in his program. Feeling helpless and inadequate when brutally force-fed a whole database full of unresolved crimes, the protagonist's brain snaps and he becomes precisely what he was engineered NOT to be, namely a mindless crime-fighting machine. With Alex's painstakingly established humanity being suddenly removed from the equation, it now seems that the laborious character development present in the first act was all in vain, effectively prompting us to root for an entirely different protagonist altogether. At this point, what is now a full-fledged robotic entity will need to reclaim his lost humanity in order to become a true character once more. But seeing how this can only be achieved with the systematic elimination of various enemies, paramount of which is power mad creator Raymond Sellars, there is no humanity to be found in his method, nor in his sappy one-liners. From a spectator's point of view, it’s hard not to feel cheated by this sudden reversal of philosophy. After insisting heavily on the need to create a willful machine, after being subjected to the cyborg’s endless hesitations during his lengthy transformation into the final product, we are soon left with the exact opposite of what we were conditioned to expect, namely an automated thug who guns down bad guys like a mere turret and conducts an investigation by simply following computer-generated clues. Aside from baffling the spectator, this 180-degree spin also helps us make sense of the automated nature of narrative progression, which is made to fulfill a certain number of disparate spectator expectations in any way possible.

Revenge is befitting equally of men and machines.

While it is an effort in dramatic contradiction, the film's lazy screenplay also features some truly jarring plot devices. Using technological upheaval at once as a key dramatic issue and a versatile narrative tool, the film relies heavily on a crude overbid of explanatory interactive screens, which effortlessly convey vital stats and additional graphic material while dazzling us with their slick display. Such convenience is cranked up to perplexing extremes with Robocop's new-found ability to remotely assess the emotional state of secondary characters. After being reprimanded by his exasperated spouse for his lack of involvement in their family life, the fully-automated protagonist suddenly indulges in a grotesque form of emotional involvement, using his cybernetic cerebellum to conjure surveillance images of his son and running an "emotional assessment" (those words are actually seen flashing on the theater screen) to better delineate the young man's despair. There's no actual form of human interaction involved here, just a dubious form of robotic sensibility achieved through modern man's agency with screens rather than people. Hence, we ultimately end up watching characters watching screens for the better part of the film, being bombarded by facts and stats in a futile attempt to draw us into a data-dominated future. And while this narrative tactic could be said to propose a relevant critique of today’s fragmented news culture, there remains a blatant intellectual dishonesty in exposing such a would-be human story through constant recourse to cold screens and ineffectual numbers. The same is true for the few sequences featuring “The Novak Report”. While I agree that these sequences successfully emulate the disturbing experience of watching Fox News, that very experience remains an integrant part of the film.

And while many of the film's crucial issues are inhumanely conveyed through explanatory screens, not unlike a video game plot, the simplistic story structure is similarly mechanical in its clinical alternation of scenes. Proceeding from the mere juxtaposition of Alex Murphy's lost humanity and the marketing efforts made by Raymond Sellars to promote his creation, the screenplay clumsily juggles two distinct types of scenes: "Robocop" scenes in which the protagonist discusses his fate with some exasperated human and "Omnicorp" scenes in which the villain discusses profitability with his team in some posh office setting. Such laborious exposition is the film's bread and butter, showcasing nearly the full range of the art direction and acting departments while moving the two main characters forward like pegs on a game of Cribbage. The whole thing is actually so inane as to remind one of a TV show. And while some truly intriguing concepts initially help us swallow the pill, the redundancy of it all soon turns the spectator's experience into a tedious ordeal. You might be surprised by this, but there is a actually a saturation point past which the sight of balding Keaton endlessly pondering on his future in front of some insignificant modern art pieces spread around his office like trophies becomes a grueling chore. And that's notwithstanding the painfully unfunny antics of Samuel L. Jackson and Jay Baruchel, who delivers a telegraphed performance that probably earned him a chunk of change equally large as the amount of credibility he’s lost with me.

The numerous office scenes are not only painful to watch because of their dubious raison d’être, but also because they make use of actors equally dynamic and expressive as the surrounding furniture. With the exception of Gary Oldman and Jackie Earle Haley, who deliver heartfelt and affective performances as two colorful robot engineers, the rest of the cast is strictly on autopilot, which further conveys the idea of a mechanically produced film. Haley’s first appearance is actually quite exhilarating as he brazenly mocks Robocop for his humanity, further providing him with the delicious moniker “Tin Man”. He then goes on to deliver the punchiest line of the film, and a very nice throwback to Verhoeven's original. After seeing one of his own machines kick the shit out of Robocop during a simulated hostage situation, and reflecting on his scrawny response time, Haley blurts out: “I wouldn’t buy that for a dollar”! No he didn’t! Yeah, he just did…And it’s a shame too, since so few of the actors here were asked to go out of their way to create engrossing characters. That said, Swedish actor Joel Kinnaman is appropriately robotic in the titular role, but so is Michael Keaton, whose unsightly baldness is hardly fitting for a high-flying executive such as Raymond Sellars (even Donald Trump makes some kind of effort to conceal the cranial signs of old age). Never raising his voice, but simply delivering his lines in the most unaffected tone possible, Keaton is only out for his paycheck, and so his Canadian comedian Jay Baruchel, who offers a toned-down version of his manic-depressive antics to better please puritanical American audiences.

Believe it or not, there are limits past which the observation of Michael
Keaton blabbering endlessly in his office becomes a chore.

Visually speaking, the film has very little to offer save for the contents of some early scenes. Two of these scenes involve Robocop's rude awakening to his new self. After being initially switched on, the poor man can hardly process the implications of his new state. Freeing himself from his captors, he then proceeds to elope from his containment chamber and run scared through Omnicorp's China-set robotics plant. Passing rows and rows of Chinese drones assembling parts in aseptic metal surroundings on his way to the loading dock, the protagonist then leaps over the outside fence and falls into the watery depths of a large rice field, against which the ominous plant towers like a sore thumb, the unsightly consecration of progress in our globalized economy. And there's another successful jab against corporate culture, which the film ultimately embraces by softening each subsequent blow. Then, there is that traumatic exercise in psychological adjustment, which sees Dr. Norton unveil the interiors of the protagonist's armor. As all robotic limbs are removed, the abdomen dismantled and the breastplates parted, what is left is a pair of lungs confined to transparent sacks, one hand, one spinal cord and a head fitted with a transparent cranium showcasing a damaged brain patched with all sorts of computer chips. That scene is actually awe-inspiring in its ability to break down humanity to its simplest expression. And despite some unsatisfying later developments, it is one that will accompany you long after leaving the theater.

Unfortunately, the remaining imagery is dubious at best, especially when it comes to the film's lackluster action sequences. The wonderful design of Robocop’s shell is initially transferred as is from the original film, complete with shimmering gray breastplates and a black plastic midsection. But that’s all changed when Sellars brazenly asks that they “make it black” in order to sell it more easily. As for the ED-209, theirs is almost a carbon copy of the original design, but it is sadly deprived of the evocative stop-motion animation that made their clumsy progression so amusing. Hence, while it is peopled with similar automated contraptions, this new iteration of crime-plagued Detroit is the scene of far less involving action sequences, the whole of which functions here as broken clockwork, or to put in contemporary terms, as a sub-par video game. Despite a crude overbid of fired shots, documentary-filmmaker José Padilha fails to generate any sort of excitement from million-dollar set-ups, most disappointing of which is a tedious night-vision confrontation with Antoine Vallon’s henchmen that translates onscreen as a mere alternation of really bad POV shots of Robocop hitting his targets through some hokey thermal tracking system and counter-shots of him being hit by enemy fire. There’s no kineticisim involved here, nor any sense of menace against the protagonist. It’s a shame too, since the film’s only saving grace seemed to derive from entertaining action sequences…

As Jean-François Lyotard posited in his study of postmodern culture, meta-narratives now tend to erode as a certain form of “everyday” realism is being cultivated by peddlers of mass entertainment. Hence, the notions of good and evil are now becoming increasingly blurred in a bid to create more realistic, but eventually less meaningful film characters. Transforming the highly stylized Tim Burton Batmans into the drab political thrillers of today is one such example of the death of cathartic moral tales. And so is the present film, where corporate greed and the suffering of occupied nations are mere facts to be coldly appraised by the audience. No longer are we to bask in the unscrupulous villainy of Kurtwood Smith’s Clarence Boddicker and Ronny Cox’s Dick Jones while wishing for their violent demise. No longer are we to enjoy larger-than-life characters for everything is now life-like. And while some would call the new-found humanity of film villains “nuance”, I call it narrative “indeterminacy”. Hence, by locating Michael Keaton’s Raymond Sellars in a emotional gray zone, the film actually downplays the importance of its anti-corporate message, playing for keeps instead of indulging in truly vitriolic excess. Drama being the expressive counterpart of life, the present brand of would-be realistic drivel fails to involve our most-deeply held feelings, grazing at the surface of our cognitive minds instead, and provoking nothing but a lukewarm tingle instead of the emotional torrents stimulated by 1980s cinema.

So little humanity left in this new Robocop...

In the end, Robocop is a very disappointing film and a rapid drop into the abyss for the spectator exalted by its breathtaking opening. If I were to draw a graph of my enjoyment thereof, it would feature a straight diagonal line stretching from top to bottom. I was amazed at first to see the amount of respect bestowed on Iranian suicide bombers. Given a distinct voice (their dialogue was actually shot in their own language) and some well-deserved empathy, these terrorists go out more sadly than any of their American counterparts. For me, this meant a revolutionary departure from the average Hollywoodian action film, where there is no place for anything foreign but in body bags or the throats of some exotic starlets. Unfortunately, such radiant humanism merely exacerbated my disappointment with the film’s rocky unfolding and its shockingly overdetermined finale. And despite my first impression, it now seems that anything good stemming from my spectatorial experience was purely incidental, the fruit of a confused screenplay meant to corral as many genre fans as possible and a very timely reminder of what contemporary Hollywood is all about: market research realism.

2/5  Not unlike the titular protagonist, this new version of Robocop is strictly the result of corporate thinking, a slick but cold product with a human face meant to conceal its hollow core.

Children of the Corn (1984)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.