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.

Some More Fantasia 2012 Reviews

Here are some more unreleased Fantasia 2012 reviews I found while removing clutter from my desktop. These reviews cover the three films I saw on July 23rd:

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You Are the Apple of my Eye

This irresistible Taiwanese import, sort of a coming-of-age romantic comedy, will surely plaster a smile on your face and make you leave the theater with a newfound fondness for humanity. Based on the director's eponymous autobiographical novel, You Are the Apple of my Eye chronicles both its protagonists' arduous process of infatuation and their emotional maturation through that process, using sharp humor and insightful observations about teenage life to keep us involved all the way through. And while the ending proves somewhat off-kilter, it provides a refreshing alternative to traditional happy endings, hence delivering a far more relevant and humanistic message about the selflessness of love.

The film opens in media res as protagonist Ching-Teng Ko is preparing for a wedding ceremony. Then, it quickly flashes back to the world of teenage abandon as the bright-eyed young man, now a last year high school student, is seen rushing to class along with a crew of mischievous chums. After a quick introduction to this happy bunch of comical misfits, we learn that they are all infatuated with cute honor student Chia-Yi Shen, a lovely young woman whose generous smile is equally intoxicating as the protagonist's antics in trying to win her over. Contrary to his friends, numbskull Ching-Teng Ko first seems to be at odds with diminutive Chia-Yi Shen, but when she offers free tutelage to help him out of his academic bind, they soon embark on an enriching relationship that will slowly blossom into love. I use the term "slowly" here as the film chronicles both the gang's high school years and their later college years when "being a man" becomes equally as important as being in love. Will the two protagonists' love for each other survive the test of time, or will emotional strains prevent their union? See for yourself, and be sure to find some inspiration in the process!

Narrowly avoiding the traps of gross-out comedy, You Are the Apple of my Eye is a constantly honest and touching account of puppy love. And while I never personally experienced such a thing, I found myself strangely drawn to the idea. It was as if I'd suddenly found a new souvenir from my youth, an enlightening account of my first brush with romantic love. Obviously, that is pure fantasy, but that is also why such films exist: to help the spectator transcend his own dull life and allow him to wander greener pastures of flickering light and seething sentiments. And while you could say that the present film is grounded in reality, and especially the director and writer's own personal experience, the truth is that real life doesn't quite compare with what's onscreen here. Everyone is beautiful here. There's no pimply misfit with suicidal tendencies. There's just a well-groomed string of well-meaning friends, and a complete departure from the sheer complexity and depressing quality of life as it is. As for the two main actors, they are both incredibly charismatic, which makes their relationship all the more involving while depriving it of any satisfactory anchor into the "real" world. Luckily, they both eventually develop character flaws that allow them to become increasingly human. The film itself also becomes progressively more human as the narrative unfolds, ultimately trading the expected fairy tale ending for a less uplifting, but far more earnest conclusion.

In the end, while the film privileges a glamorized depiction of teenage life, it remains grounded in emotional realism, which greatly helps it convey a plausible love story laced with several complex issues. More importantly, it cultivates humanism in such a way as to completely neuter the poisonous implications of traditional romantic comedies. No longer the simple wage of good looks and shimmering riches, love is thus freed from the exclusionist world of fairy tales and left to thrive in a far more complex, but subsequently more evocative world.

3.5/5  This truly irresistible effort redeems the whole romantic-comedy sub-genre by contributing some well-needed humanism and many genuine emotions.

Cinema provides love and beauty for
those who can't afford it.

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Memory of the Dead

Perplexing both in its inability to generate thrills and to contribute any original idea to the horror genre, this appalling Argentinian dud could very well become a case example of bad filmmaking. Shockingly derivative of The Evil Dead, the film clumsily juggles elements of horror and comedy in a hopeless bid to recapture Sam Raimi's zany irreverence. Unfortunately, the lack of creativity and technical proficiency involved in the project result only in a soulless and unpalatable copy plagued by atrocious green hues, appalling art direction, clunky editing and a complacent screenplay featuring redundant tribulations, unsympathetic characters and a defunct story structure. Only the most undiscriminating thrill-seekers are likely to get a kick out of the film's scarce and irrelevant, but muscular gore scenes.

The story of the film focuses on a handful of brooding misfits, each with their own insipid backstory and each a guest in the creepy, thunder-lit mansion of recently deceased sorcerer Jorge. A few days after the man's mysterious death, his friends all congregate for a night of perplexing mysticism, vying to bring back the old man through some incongruous ritual whose main tenets remain unclear until the final few scenes. And while the film seems to entail a web of intrigue between the numerous characters, it ultimately plays out as mere slasher film, confronting lone victims with various lumbering specters as the seconds painfully trickle down and quickly exhaust what little steam the film was running with. As for the ridiculous twist ending, it manages only to elicit embarrassed glances amongst viewers while failing to provide an acceptable conclusion to this harrowing ordeal.

The film's technical shortcomings are obvious from the get-go as inadequate continuity compromises an already dubious opening dream sequence, throwing the whole film in some oneiric limbo from which it never seems to come out. And while the film's atrocious editing (carried out by no less than three people) contributes its fair share to the overarching narrative indeterminacy, the inept art direction and complacent screenplay are also to blame. Using green filters for every single scene, director Valentin Javier Diment creates a nauseous, rather than terrifying atmosphere, bathing the whole story in abrasive gastric acids on their way to the busy colon of film appreciation. As for the ridiculous CGI landscapes surrounding the mansion, illuminated by familiar streaks of lightning, they merely create a sense of childish amateurism that greatly compromises the many adult themes contained in the story. But in the end, while the film looks absolutely abysmal, it is ultimately defeated by a complacent screenplay that proceeds from a mere juxtaposition of overdetermined and seemingly unrelated shock scenes.

Constructed as a murder mystery, the film vies to use the shady backgrounds of its various characters to keep you guessing about to the killer's identity. Unfortunately, this proves to be quite a slippery venture as none of those characters is interesting in the least. Their personal dramas, etched with crude strikes of the brush are so overdetermined and obvious as to make you question their very relevance, especially in relation to Jorge, another one-dimensional character who finds his most intriguing iteration as a large portrait overlooking the living room. Instead of creating a web of relationships around the dead patriarch,  Diment chooses instead to mechanically juxtapose nasty execution scenes next to one another, with the punitive nature of these executions providing a means to develop the characters, hence half-assedly integrating them to the storyline.

Once assembled, the characters are thus conveniently isolated in the mansion's various rooms and exposed to some gross specter who will swiftly tear them apart. Aside from diluting the importance of the main narrative, this process fractions the screenplay in a series of unrelated episodes, each focused on gore rather than dramatic relevance. The dramatic content of these scenes is actually so overly emphasized as to become totally nullifying, and an abrasive example of babysitting the viewer. For example, there is one instance in which a one of the characters is tormented by a couple of ghosts, one of which is a lecherous old man and the other a knitting woman looking the other way. When the later apparition starts knitting her eyes and mouth shut, we immediately understand that we're looking at the girl's mother and father, replaying a traumatic scene from her childhood. But instead of letting us figure out this fact for ourselves, thanks to the many overdetermined signifiers of child abuse contained in the scene, the film proceeds to include another scene in which the character bluntly states that she was abused as a child. Whether this overly emphasized dramatic issue stems from a patronizing disdain for the viewers or crippling uncertainty in the process of storytelling is not even relevant. After all, the result is the same: would-be expressive metaphors rendered useless by explanatory dialogue, a common flaw in immature filmmaking and the coup de grace for a film whose sole saving grace was the evocative potential of its many monsters.

Memory of the Dead is definitely not the cool indie horror film that it wishes to be. Instead, it turns out to be toothless, bland and impersonal, a TV-quality throwback to the worst episodes of Tales from the Crypt. As for its many attempts at humor, they constantly fall flat on the back of the equally numerous dramatic attempts at fleshing out insignificant details about the characters' lives. With gore providing the film's only enticing feature, the result will likely be remembered only as a failed Evil Dead clone, flailing festering limbs around in a desperate attempt to catch our eye.

0.5/5  This appalling exercise in redundancy exudes the green glow of a radioactive turd.

Memory of the Dead is a crude film fraught with crude symbolism.

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The Victim

I love Michael Biehn. I think he is a key figure of the 1980s/1990s genre scene. But as Paul Reiser's Carter Burke so rightfully put it, he is merely a grunt. I'm sorry to have to say this, but the man has no place in the director's chair. The screen loves him sure, and he manages to do great things with the superior material provided by James Cameron and Gale Anne Hurd, but he has hardly enough creativity or proficiency to spearhead any sort of serious project, even if that project is a mere exploitation quickie. And if the present effort in neutered nostalgia is any indication of his new direction in life, then you might want to endlessly revisit Terminator and Aliens instead of moving on to iffy new pastures...

Extremely primitive in both its direction and story structure, The Victim focuses on a handful of dated archetypes involved in a dated premise fraught with dated tribulations, all of which contribute to a dubious "homage" to the much brawnier exploitation films of yesteryears. And if you aren't put off by the presence of either the overdetermined wood-dwelling hermit hero or the light-hearted prostitute victim, then you will surely be done in by the film's tedious developments, which half-assedly bridge toothless exploitation scenes.

The "story" of the film focuses on the tribulations of blonde bimbo Annie, a reckless "bad girl" who gets mixed-up with a pair of murderous cops after trying to score some quality coke. When her friend is accidentally killed during a sex party with said cops in some secluded area just outside of Los Angeles, Annie immediately becomes a target for elimination. Forced to flee through the woods, she manages to befriend a moody hermit who provides invaluable help in combating the lawless constables. The film then drags along to a tedious final act featuring a disturbingly familiar game of cat and mouse between the good guys and the bad guys. As for the obligatory twist ending, it'll probably won't give you time to shrug as you'll surely be dashing for the exit already...

If you don't mind having to wait through various boring scenes of exposition in which undirected actors are struggling with a student-level screenplay filmed in mundane locals only to be rewarded by a few flashes of nudity and some uninspired rough play featuring a heated crowbar, then be my guest and seek out the film. Same if you'd like to see Michael Biehn endlessly driving his pick-up truck to an atrocious pop music soundtrack for what appears to be ten minutes. But I wouldn't recommend it otherwise... Hell, the film's very short runtime of 83 minutes could've been shortened significantly with no detriment to the narrative. The lingering scenes in which Jennifer Blanc is walking through the woods, the painful expository scenes in which she and her friend are mundanely chatting on their couch, all of those could've been shortened or edited out. And what you'd be left you would still be a boring short.

1/5  Uninspired and mindlessly executed,  Biehn's film is a toothless homage to the brawny exploitation thrillers of the 1970s.

Faced with such a bleak future, poor Michael Biehn
will undoubtedly keep looking at the past for inspiration.

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. 

Grave Encounters (2011)

While the title of this independent Canadian effort seems to infer some straight-to-video disaster with faint allures of J-Horror, it is actually meant as a crude parody of paranormal investigation shows, the eminently poor quality of the wordplay being a direct window into the two directors’ contempt for the many bargain-basement Ghostbusters currently saturating the airwaves. Adamant on exposing the charlatanism inherent to their practices, the Vicious Brothers hence create their own fictitious crew of witless opportunists and have them partake in a real-life nightmare meant to expunge their sins. Shot entirely from a subjective point of view and capitalizing on the “found footage” gimmick, Grave Encounters is a direct heir to The Blair Witch Project, which it updates through the use of truly claustrophobic settings and a constantly widening offscreen space. The result is nothing original, but it is quite effective, with a minimal amount of occult events producing maximal effect. Relentlessly paced, with no wiggle room left for the entrapped protagonists, it also boasts a rare quality amongst contemporary horror films: the ability to actually scare you.

Forced attrition is the wage of witless ghost hunters.

The titular TV show is the brainchild of con artist Lance Preston, whose alleged childhood brush with the occult is the hook for his hokey ghost-hunting concept. This is all explained through an introductory interview with one of the show’s producers who shares an hilarious promo in which Preston tells of his “traumatic” background and solemnly invites the viewer for some “grave encounters”. The producer then goes on to explain the show’s popularity and hint at the horrific events that caused its untimely end. Apparently, something went awry in the process of filming the sixth episode, something that decimated the crew, leaving their raw footage as only testimony of their ordeal. Edited down from 76 hours, the following 90-minute account of the events gives us a privileged insight into what actually happened. We thus get to see Preston and the gang conducting preliminary interviews and setting up their gear for an overnight lock-inside the asbestos-filled walls of a disaffected mental asylum. Using unconvincing testimony from various caretakers, some of which is literally made-up, they gather some highly unlikely proof for the alleged haunting of the building by former patients. But despite everybody’s initial skepticism, ghosts really do manifest during the night, senselessly tormenting the film crew for our own sadistic pleasure. 

Anchoring the story in the “authentic” world of reality TV, the Vicious Brothers’ bid for verisimilitude is established very early through the use of constant re-framing and re-takes, numerous interventions from the crew and the presence of blurred faces to indicate non-cooperative subjects. It’s rarely pretty, but it gives the film the raw quality necessary to formulate a relevant critique of reality TV aesthetics and allow terror to take a truly tangible form, which the derelict setting exacerbates to wild extremes. An absolute wet dream for urban explorers, the disaffected Riverview Hospital hypnotically draws you in its infected bowels alongside the protagonists, with which we share a kindred fascination for its macabre history. As such, it proves to be the primary vector of the film’s creepy atmosphere and an economical way for the filmmakers to create affect through simple suggestion. And while derelict mental institutions are slowly becoming overdetermined horror settings, they will always retain a genuinely creepy quality. Not because they house the most singular elements of our society, but because they suggest wild extremes in doctor/patient relationships, undue imprisonment and experimental surgery meant to benefit self-seeking eccentrics over helpless Others. This makes the perspective of tortured souls looking for retribution all the more tangible, not unlike the unwavering feeling of entrapment that one derives from being clustered within its walls like the poor souls of old. In that sense, Grave Encounters reminded me of Session 9, another low-budget horror effort capitalizing on the asylum setting for maximal affect. Both using oppressive ruins as ready-made sources of terror, they effortlessly convey a similar feeling of claustrophobia while focusing on the disturbing imprint from barbaric practices past. Here, every element of décor is bone-chilling, from the crayon-covered walls to the empty bathtubs and the stainless steel gurneys, all remnants of a tortured past constantly trying to emerge into the light of day, creating as many hideouts for angry ghosts as there are evidences of previous foul play.

Approximate framing a necessary ill for success
in the world of "found footage" films.

Further cultivating verisimilitude in a bid for increasingly tangible terror, the film features a smart dosage of parody, which allows for a relevant critique of TV excess that eludes the traps of absurdist flamboyance. Hence, the protagonists are depicted as properly vacuous and self-serving while retaining a certain measure of humanity necessary to make us partake in their plight. As for the exploration of their deceitful ghost-hunting methods, it is achieved in a fun, but level-headed way that prevents the film from transforming into a self-defeating farce. This is initially achieved in a rather seamless manner, through casual interviews with active caretakers who mention various generic symptoms of ghostly possession (cold breezes, open windows…), hinting at supernatural presence without actually making verifiable claims. The film crew then proceeds to mount cameras near “paranormal hotspots” in order to capture elusive specters on film. The protagonists' seamless usage of that perplexing expression proves quite useful in appraising the semi-serious nature of their endeavor, which allows them to coin hokey technical terms to better substantiate their outlandish "beliefs". The ongoing parody of their methods then continues with the introduction of the paranormal investigator’s toolkit, complete with many dubious contraptions that will find renewed relevance along the way as platforms for ghostly manifestations. In the end, while these colorful elements of ghost-hunting lore all convey a definite pictorial quality to the characters and their craft, their limited originality prevents any slip in realism. Even when self-promoter Preston and phony medium Houston Gray start challenging each other for the best conjuring method caught on tape, we are spared any bothersome hysterics that might’ve hindered the sense of terror deriving from the film’s realistic approach. Such restraint from the directors is crucial in cultivating the appropriate mood, and it is admirably achieved throughout.  

Further taking advantage of its limited budget by cashing in on the intangible sense of menace permeating the main set, the film creates unbearable tension through absence alone. Waiting incessantly for the first occult event to grace the screen, we are constantly left scrutinizing the depth of field in search of an elusive presence, becoming increasingly edgy from the sheer certainty, but constant withholding of impending horror. When forces from beyond finally do manifest, their actions are initially quite tame, almost playful. Hence, we see a wheelchair moving forward almost imperceptibly in a empty corridor, then the hair of a crew member swerving above her head. We derive some mild unease with such unwarranted presence, early goosebumps to prepare us for the following massacre.  That said, things quickly take a turn for the worst when another crew member is pushed down a flight of stairs, paving the way for a literal descent into Hell as deformed ghouls start dropping from the ceiling, flash-banging and lobotomizing those unfortunate enough to stand in their path. Pacing is key to creating affect here, as we slowly become involved in the protagonists' plunge into madness, but it can only be achieved through careful manipulation of the audience. Evidently, the "found footage" gimmick provides immediate spectator expectations, informing us of the protagonists' demise even before their first appearance onscreen. While causing obvious dramatic limitations, this gives a chance for skillful directors to effortlessly shape our spectatorial experience. Here, the Vicious Brothers constantly keep us on our toes by cleverly withholding the realization of our expectations and by using gradation in order to catalyze them for greater effect. While these techniques allow us to seamlessly step into the diegetic world, they are also effective against the protagonists, whose maddening experience becomes equally gradual and inevitable as the turn of an oiled screw driven by a relentless power drill, which aggressively causes their forced attrition.

Widening offscreen space is key
to manipulating spectator expectations.

While it is seamlessly cultivated through the very emptiness of the film’s vast settings, absence is also conveyed cinematographically through the creation of a particularly vast offscreen space. Featuring many interlocking white corridors lined up with doors to patient cells, it seems like every shot exudes a constant sense of impending menace stemming from all edges of the frame (even the upper one, as the diegetic ghouls can also drop from the ceiling). Hence, a simple static shot taken from the middle of a corridor is bursting with a disturbing sense of dread, creating depth in the scenery from the mere suggestion of a lurking monster. It’s really simple stuff, but so are the mechanics of fear when stripped to its bare bones by such a disturbingly realistic effort. As the story unfolds, offscreen space is widened even more as the characters’ field of vision is systematically narrowed by the use of increasingly inaccurate equipment. The night-vision lens, for example, merely creates additional offscreen space by providing a mere halo of light around which darkness accumulates, simultaneously providing cover for lurking entities and impairing the protagonists' progression through their oppressive surroundings. Shadows are thus literally threatening to engulf the protagonists as they are lured toward the asylum's endless underground tunnels, forced into a dark void that threatens to penetrate their minds like the nasty orbitoclasts of early brain surgeons. Enduring the ordeal alongside them, ours then become a truly harrowing experience in dreadful expectations and the perfect materialization of urban exploration gone awry.

Unfortunately for this surprisingly cost-effective piece of genre filmmaking, it features a complacent  screenplay that shamelessly invokes otherworldly logic to make sense of all inexplicable phenomena plaguing the characters. Case is point is when the exasperated film crew decides to look for a way out of the asylum. After busting down the door from which they originally entered, they are inexplicably faced with yet another empty corridor. After following a sign indicating the way to the roof, they are faced with a dead-end. Never bothering to provide a satisfactory rationale for such events other to say that they imply some ghostly shenanigans, The Vicious Brothers unduly trap their protagonists and compromise all of their chances for survival, making them akin to the mindless cannon fodder of slasher films. And while such screenwriting shortcomings could be said to derive from the "found footage" format, with our intimate knowledge of the protagonists' fate forcing the directors to deprive their characters of any fighting chance, I'm sure that any competent screenwriter would beg to differ. Especially since there are so many interesting things to do with dark exteriors, most important of which is the preservation of the film's naturalistic approach to its outlandish material...

Darkness clamps down on the protagonists,
engulfing the spectator alongside them.

All in all, while the film doesn’t transcend the fairly rigid mold from which it originates, it is quite effective in fulfilling its humble objectives. The characters are true-to-life and their ordeal bears definite airs of verisimilitude, allowing for the creation of genuine terror from nearly nothing at all, empty settings and empty pockets. A very satisfying effort from Canadian duo The Vicious Brothers.

3/5  Despite a lack of originality and a barren premise, Grave Encounters proves to be ruthlessly cost-effective in its ability to generate heartfelt onscreen terror. 

Revenge of the Phallic Woman (essay)

For almost thirty years now, critics and theorists alike have been baffled by the visceral attack on the senses provided by Cronenbergian cinema. Be they human flies, venereal zombies, killer dwarves or morphing typewriters, his creatures have always hinted at an underlying revolution(1) that needed blood to be shed and all sexual inhibitions to be annihilated. However, amidst a chaos of sexual promiscuity and metamorphosis of the flesh, there lies an authorial text, whose coherence within the lifelong work of the director is almost universally granted. Of course, detractors to this text have risen through the years and, among them, many feminist and more liberal critics (leader of which is Robin Wood) accused Cronenberg of being a reactionary misogynist. But the director also has many supporters, including William Beard, Pierre Véronneau and myself, whose chief concern is not so much to shut down this view altogether, but rather to open up discussion of other possible interpretations of such a complex bulk of work (no less than sixteen feature films to date, with two in the making: a pretty good overall number for a Canadian filmmaker…). I would like however to focus on one particular film: Rabid. Standing at the crossroads of feminist horror theory, it poses a specific problem to any Freudian reading of it: that of the woman possessing a phallus. This will be the basis of my reconstruction of feminist theory, away from psychoanalysis, and toward the study of Cronenbergian binaries and the subversive nature of disease in his films.    

In her article on classical horror cinema, Linda Williams stipulates a clear link between femininity and monstrosity (which would seem useful in an analysis of Rabid, wherein the monster is female), but only to fall in the trap set by Laura Mulvey. Indeed, she transposes Mulvey’s theory directly onto the horror genre, by associating the punished female of “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” with the punished monster who stands for her within the genre: “The destruction of the monster that concludes so many horror films could therefore be interpreted as another way of disavowing and mastering the castration her body represents” (88). Now, it would seem such an interpretation is virtually useless to comment Rabid because the monstrosity is here specifically constructed around the possession of the phallus, and not its lack. Indeed, the presence of this phallic appendage is emphasized by its ability to spring out and retract from a vaginal opening in Rose’s armpit. That is, the vagina is also the phallus, so the very term “lack” is now totally meaningless. Even the very definition of Rose as female becomes problematic within the psychoanalytical framework.

However, Williams also goes on to discuss the question of vampirism, concerning which she stipulates that the vampire’s horror lies in “the power to mutilate and transform the vulnerable male. The vampire’s insatiable need for blood seems a particularly apt analogy for what must seem to the man to be an insatiable sexual appetite – yet another threat to his potency” (90) (that she specifically speaks of the male vampire is irrelevant, because she equates male monsters with female sexuality(2)). This idea of aggressive female sexuality then becomes the source of horror. This view is indeed consistent with that of Robin Wood: “We can nonetheless underline that the film [equates horror with] the expression of aggressive female sexuality” (1990: 205). Following in those footsteps, Bart Testa offers us this interpretation of the ending: “repression has won, and particularly it has won over a dead woman’s active sexuality” (42). Wood further ties this conception of female desire as the source of horror with the Freudian concept of the woman’s “masculinity”, “which our culture is swift in repressing” (205). What Wood and Testa fail to observe though, is the punitive nature of Rose’s attacks, not only upon some of the film’s characters, but also upon the audience.  “The attacks led by Rose can also be interpreted as assaults against the traditional male predator” (193), says Piers Handling. According to him, the counterattack by Rose upon the eyes of a drunken rapist is “a symbolic attack against the ‘look’ of the male, the male ‘gaze’(3)” while her stabbing of the hands of a lustful porno theater patron, an attack against “the unsolicited male fondling” (4)(193).

Unfortunately for Handling, he doesn’t expand on this last idea as to associate the reversal of predatory sexual roles within the film with the one created without. In fact, few people at the time, even fewer within the film’s audience, ignored Marilyn Chambers’ background as a porn star (she had starred in the recent Resurrection of Eve which the film references by naming the porno theater “Eve”). It is indeed strange that Handling would speak of the shattering of traditional institutions within the film, while ignoring this simple ambiguity in the process of identification. Indeed, Chambers breaks away from her role as passive sex object and aggressively engages in rape-like attacks, becoming an active perpetrator. Whether this instills fear of female sexuality within the viewer or simply deceives his expectations is debatable. At any rate, we can turn psychoanalytical reading against its advocates by stipulating a tear in the active/passive policies of the look and the masochist/sadist roles associated respectively with female and male under Mulvey. For her part, Andrea Dworkin specifically addresses the question of male power within pornography. She translates the active/passive axiom into hunter/hunted, stating that this power resides notably within the physical power of men over women, the power of terror and the funereal power of sex, all of which are challenged by Rose. More interestingly however, she discusses the penis as a weapon: “A saber penetrating a vagina is a weapon; so is the camera or pen that renders it; so is the penis for which it substitutes (vagina literally means ‘sheath’)” (49). In Rabid’s case, the vagina becomes the actual sheath, not that of a foreign weapon, but that of Rose’s weapon: the phallus, which she uses to overwhelm men. No longer is the knife the replacement phallus (that of Jamie Lee Curtis and countless others), it is now the female body itself. No longer will it be abused because it will stab back. Its initial revolt against patriarchal abuses (Keloid is, according to Piers Handling (p. 184), the quintessential Cronenbergian father figure), its transformation, has produced a permanent defense against further attacks.

In her analysis of feminist criticism of horror films, Cynthia Freeman rejects psychoanalytical and psychodynamic theories in favor of a more socially oriented, perhaps more fair and constructive interpretation of the genre. “It is limiting to translate a social critique into a depth-psychological thesis about how we all (allegedly) have deep ambivalences about our abjected mothers” (200), she says ironically. She then goes on to interpret Cronenberg’s The Brood as an allusion to mad scientist horror films, framing “the megalomaniac psychiatrist” Dr. Raglan as the film’s main villain, instead of the monstrous Nola Carveth (the villain according to Barbara Creed’s psychodynamic lecture of the film), herself a fruit of Raglan’s experimenting with psychoplasmics. In further reacting to Creed, Freeland states that “she also misrepresents [please note that she doesn’t use the term ‘misinterprets’] the structure of the film’s plot, which depicts an appropriate punishment that Dr. Raglan suffers for his hubris – as he is destroyed by the monstrous children he has so freakishly ‘fathered’” (200). Similarly, Rabid’s Dan Keloid is killed by the creature he has unjustly brought into the world, namely the newly vampiric Rose.  Of course, the demise of the mad scientist at the hands of his creation is reminiscent of Frankenstein. Now, recent theorists of the James Whale film overwhelmingly play the monster as victim of the selfishness of his bourgeois master. Interestingly enough, Robin Wood is among them. His inscription of the monster as standing for the repressed proletariat in his introduction to The American Nightmare (page 11) suggests an exploitative relation between the creator and his creation(5). Why is he so diligent then, in overlooking Keloid’s responsibility within Rabid?

Seemingly, Wood does not consider the relation between Rose and Keloid to be exploitative. However, an analysis of Cronenbergian binaries might prove him wrong. For one, the opposition between mind and body permeates his work. Now, his association of female with the body (nature) and of male with the mind (reason) apparently supports a normative conception of the sexes. In the case one adheres to such a conviction, my analysis of the director becomes a simple matter of pointing out the contradictions within patriarchy, as suggested by Judith Mayne in “Feminist Film Theory and Criticism”. Indeed, it is always nature that is misunderstood and selfishly modified by reason within Cronenberg’s films. Dan Keloid’s decision to utilize experimental surgery on an unconscious Rose is a good example of those excesses of reason, which lead to a bloody revolt of the abused human body. In this case, it is the abused female who strikes back against patriarchy with all the strength she’s been infused with, exactly as did the Frankenstein monster (whom I consider fully human, even more so than his creator). Moreover, there is something Cronenberg recently said, which I think is crucial in understanding him and his opinion of women (in relation to nature): “the idea that the most basic human is a female and then the perversion, the late development, is a male […] does make some kind of sense” (Simon: 55). This, not only justifies the binary, but also assigns perversion to the male, and reason.

The inadequacy of the male toward the female within the film seemingly stems from this fact. Rapists aside, Hart’s relation with Rose is spiked by the shortcomings of his rational mind. It is indeed his obsession with rebuilding the motorcycle that has crushed Rose which isolates his helpless girlfriend from his positive influence (she calls him in a moment of panic, but he doesn’t answer because he is too busy listening to a woman’s voice on the radio and piecing back together his hunk of scrapped metal, instead of listening to his girlfriend’s voice and piecing her back together). Ultimately, he also causes her death. By reacting to her disease as he does (he gets angry and violent, nastily accuses her of being a monster), he denies her the loving care she deserves after being altered against her will. In the end, as she talks to him on the phone, she insists on the fact that she is afraid. When she gets attacked, though, Hart helplessly breaks the phone, illustrating the film’s emphasis on their lack of communication, the result of a selfish and fiendish masculinity, more interested in the coldness of metal than the warmth of a lover. In fact, hasn’t it ever occurred to anyone that Rose’s monstrosity directly comes (no pun intended) with the phallus?

Surely, the female body is ill and eventually dies in Rabid, seemingly marking a disgust for disease and death, that of the natural body, of nature. Now, I’d like to consider both from a novel point of view, that of (r)evolution. Antonin Artaud once said that the plague and theater are alike. “Theater, like plague, is a crisis solved by death or healing. And the plague is a superior ill because it is a complete crisis after which there is only death or an extreme purification. […] The theatrical action like that of the plague, is beneficial, because it pushes men to see themselves as they are, […] revealing to collectivities their dark power, their hidden strength, inviting them to face destiny with an heroic and superior attitude which they would never have had without it” (46). Likewise in Cronenberg’s films, disease inevitably reveals to men their own repressed humanity and it also invariably topples the status quo, be it sexual repression (in Shivers), male supremacy (in Rabid), the family nexus (in The Brood), or simply science(6) (in all those previous instances). Such a revolutionary power, considering its corrosive impact on bourgeoisie as well as its empowering patriarchy’s victims(7), is not unlike a form of pathological communism. And although Cronenberg addresses the question of revolutionary diseases(1), he also discusses evolutionary diseases. “Darwin’s theory of evolution by mutation had a serious flaw, because he never considered the possibility of evolution by disease. […] In my films, there is an attempt by some of the characters to see their diseases as metamorphoses” (56) Now, the abolition of gender is just around the corner, with Cronenberg’s idea of “omnisexuality” as the omen of a world wherein sexism is abolished. The new humanity is hermaphroditic, free of the prejudices stemming from gender. It further redefines the sexual act itself, bringing about a universal solution: mutual penetration, subverting the cult of the phallus into a cult of humanity. Who knows, perhaps mutual childbearing is the next phase of this disease…

Controlling nature and controlling women are two primordial capitalist principles. Under Cronenberg, the two are one and the same, against which the revolution of nature (in this case, the female body) operates. Now, the weapons of the revolution are the weapons of the oppressor, turned against him. Namely, it is the phallus, turned against itself, faced with the terror it instills and the injustices it creates. Likewise, psychoanalysis is a weapon used against itself through feminist theory. However, when it becomes as overdetermined as the social norms it is supposed to attack, it is no longer an extension of the revolution, but rather that of the institution. In short, waging war against Cronenberg on gender issues might also mean forgetting that he lets us glimpse at the solution to this very war.

Notes:

1-     In an interview to Adam Simon, Cronenberg and him discuss a line from The Brood, wherein Hartog (one of the patients of Dr. Raglan), refers to a tumor his mental desires have created as a “small revolution”. Cronenberg goes on to say not only that “rather than actually dealing with the political revolution, I deal with the metaphorical political revolution of the body”, but also that “we all know there are societies that we felt were better off changed, even though there were civil wars and bloody battles that were required to achieve that”. Whether he talks of the communist revolutions of the Cubans, Bolsheviks and Chinese or the anti-colonialist (Algerian, Congolese, South African…) wars for freedom is shadowy. I believe he talks of the former, however.

2-     “The vampiric act of sucking blood, sapping the life fluid of a victim that in turn becomes a vampire, is similar to the female role of milking the sperm of the male during intercourse”. Interestingly enough, there is a footnote for this line, which states that, according to Stan Brakhage (!), the word “nosferatu” means, “splashed with milk”…

3-     In targeting Mulvey’s concept of the “male gaze”, Handling seems to specifically imply the shortcomings of psychoanalysis in film. The rape scene itself (in the barn) is strictly a play on conventions. The would-be rapist is the quintessential drunken, horny bum, while his female victim is the quintessential victim,, lying on the floor, arms stretched in front of her to protect her body from the dark masculine figure. That is, until she counterattacks and gets him at his own game (through unwanted penetration).

4-     The guy, who looks strangely like a bald Ashton Kutcher, spots her as she comes into the theater and decides to move in for the kill. To approach the lovely young woman, he decides the best course of action is to stroke her hair from behind and pass it as an accident, in order to get her attention. At that point, she complains that “men always bother her”, as if prompting the guy to leave her be, which he doesn’t. Instead, he decides to make his fantasies come true and play her boyfriend, insisting he is only after “a handful of popcorn”. He snakes his way to the seat next to her, upon which he is offered popcorn, as a test to prove his good faith. Emphasizing his own lie, he picks up some of it and drops it back, taking a handful of her instead. He then starts grabbing her breasts, unaware of the sting to come. In this sequence, Cronenberg makes very clear who the harasser is. In fact, just as Dr. Keloid thought he had the right to experiment on the female body, this guy also believes he has rights over it, that he can deceive women into giving it to him. The same is true for the guy in the mall, who seemingly believes that if Rose accepts to have him sit next to her, she will necessarily accept his inept seduction tactics.

5-     “In time, I could have trained him to do my will” says the baron Frankenstein while lying in bed at the beginning of The Bride of Frankenstein, leisurely discussing the monster’s fate (as a potential slave, a human robot).

6-     I have a theory, according to which all men in Cronenberg’s films are mad scientists. In Dr. St-Luc’s waiting room in Shivers, there is an old man giving a speech to Janine Tudor. He brags about the hypothetic reversal of the ageing process, and the words he uses clearly remind us of the scientific mumbo-jumbo used by Rollo Linsky in a previous scene. Moreover, recent films by Cronenberg bring the mad scientist character from the background to the foreground. For example, Seth Brundle is the protagonist of The Fly and the mad scientist. The same is true for Beverley and Elliott Mantle. In Crash, Vaughan is interested in the melding of the human body and the machine. In eXistenZ, Gas claims to have, through Allegra Geller’s games, Godly powers, those of “God the mechanic”. Of course, this theory is only in its embryonic stage. Still, it shows promise as a further explanation of the Cronenbergian binaries.

7-     There is a particularly revealing scene wherein health official Claude Lapointe and some city official leisurely discuss the epidemic while being driven to Montreal. There are then attacked by rabid construction workers who literally penetrate their car with a drop hammer. This is a clear role reversal, with the blue collars taking action against disinterested bourgeois. Also, the simple fact that a reactionary British health official is likened to P.E. Trudeau is highly subversive. What of the diseased, then? Can they be likened to the revolutionary separatists of 1970? Surely, they can.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ARTAUD, Antonin. Le Théâtre et Son Double, Éditions Gallimard, Saint-Amand (Fr.), 1964, 220 p.

BEARD, William. “L’Esprit Viscéral” from L’Horreur Intérieure: les films de David Cronenberg (French version of The Shape of Rage) (ed. Piers Handling and Pierre Véronneau), La Cinémathèque Québécoise, Montréal, 1990, pp. 57-135

DWORKIN, Andrea. “Power”, from The Problem of Pornography (ed. Susan Dwyer), Wadsworth Publishing Company, Belmont (CA), 1995, pp. 48-52

FREELAND, Cynthia A. “Feminist Frameworks for Horror Films” from Post-theory : reconstructing film studies (ed. David Bordwell, Noel Carroll), University of Wisconsin Press, Madison, 1996, pp. 195-218

HANDLING, Piers. “Un Cronenberg Canadien” from L’Horreur Intérieure: les films de David Cronenberg (French version of The Shape of Rage) (ed. Piers Handling and Pierre Véronneau), La Cinémathèque Québécoise, Montréal, 1990, pp. 179-196

HURLEY, Kelly. « Reading Like an Alien : Posthuman Identity in Ridley Scott’s Alien and David Cronenberg’s Rabid », from Posthuman Bodies (ed. Judith Halberstam and Ira Livingston), Indiana University Press, Bloomington, 1995, pp. 203-221

LENNE, Gérard. “Monster and Victim: Women in the horror film” from Sexual Stratagems: the world of women in film (ed. Patricia Erens), Horizon Press, New York, 1979, pp. 31-40

PARKER, Andrew. “Grafting David Cronenberg: Monstrosity, AIDS Media, National/Sexual Difference” from Media Spectacles (ed. Marjorie Garber, Jann Matlock & Rebecca L. Walkowitz) , Routledge, New York, 1993, pp. 209-227

SANJEK, David. “Dr.Hobbes’s Parasites: Victims, Victimization, and Gender in David Cronenberg’s Shivers”, published in Cinema Journal 36, #1 (Fall 1996) pp. 55- 74

SIMON, Adam. “The Existential Deal: An interview with David Cronenberg” published in Critical Quarterly vol. 43, #3 (Autumn 2001)  pp. 34-56

STANBROOK, Alan. “Cronenberg’s Creative Cancers” published in Sight & Sound, v.58, #1 (Winter 1988), pp. 54-56

WILLIAMS, Linda. « When the Woman Looks » from Re-vision : essays, in feminist film criticism  (ed. Mary Ann Doane, Patricia Mellencamp, and Linda Williams), University of America Publications, 1984, pp. 83-99

WOOD, Robin. « Un point de vue dissident sur Cronenberg » from L’Horreur Intérieure: les films de David Cronenberg (French version of The Shape of Rage) (ed. Piers Handling and Pierre Véronneau), La Cinémathèque Québécoise, Montréal, 1990, pp. 197-214

WOOD, Robin. “An introduction to the American Horror Film” from The American Nightmare: Essays on the Horror Film, Festival of Festivals, Toronto, 1979, pp. 7-29