Grab your Handbook for the Recently Deceased—it’s Tim Burton’s batshit comedy/horror, Beetlejuice. Tonally, this is perfection for most Hallowe’en hang-outs—pretty much nailing the seasonal scares of lighter fare such as The Addams Family features, but neatly negating their softness with an edgier, more off-kilter vibe. Beetlejuice has been on the periphery of my Hallowe’en party picks for years, but this particular mini-marathon set the necessary standard, spirit, and represented the specific eighties/nineties era I was looking to delve into, and chain together complimentary movies.
I feel as if I’ve had the necessary, rigorous training in the quirky, nonsensical humour of Burton all my life—from Pee-wee Herman to his Batman films. Here, charming newlyweds, Adam and Barbara Maitland, take an unfortunate tumble off a bridge in their car and perish, but in lieu of a peaceful, endless slumber, they find themselves negotiating a bureaucratic afterlife full of peculiar waiting rooms and paperwork—where even in death, poor souls are subject to arbitrary, administrative red-tape. Making matters worse for the previously happy couple, a pretentious family of oddball artists move in, and disrespectfully begin to rejig the Maitlands’ previously happy home. Seemingly only the madcap, loony antics of the smutty and salacious “bio-exorcist,” Betelgeuse can shoo the invasive tenants. I often consider the film’s smart satire. Its attractive theme of the villainous business-minded, versus the kind and thoughtful creatives speaks to me—as does the deader-inside-than-the-actually-deceased living ignoring the valuable, innate qualities of the strange and unusual to their own detriment.
It’s an all star affair. Geena Davis—just two years after Cronenberg’s The Fly, is in lovely form, and in light of the recent Alec Baldwin fiasco, my viewing was coloured slightly darker, but I still love their endearing relationship as the tragically drowned Maitlands. I mean, wouldn’t it be a right laugh—although in death, to assume scary guises, and frighten folks with your better half? I appreciate how maternal Geena is to Winona here as Lydia, and the shot of her unsettling, mournful crumbling as the aged Barbara in her wedding gown has never left me in all these years. There’s an overt romanticism here too, as recognised and honoured by prolific alt-country troubadour, Ryan Adams—once upon a time beau of serial-dater, Winona circa his Heartbreaker/Gold heyday, who wrote a song entitled, “This House is Not for Sale,” about the events and characters in the film. “My whole life is a dark room; one big, dark room,” oozes goth princess, Winona Ryder—just 15 when filming in ‘87, and 17 on the film’s release in ‘88, lookin’ like something between Edgar Allan Poe’s daughter, Robert Smith, and precious Mr Echo, Ian McCulloch, or perhaps one of the Jesus and Mary Chain.
The possibly insane (certainly insanely talented) Home Alone mum and Christopher Guest improv regular, Catherine O’Hara’s vibrant visage—paprika hair, scarlet lips, and coruscating blue eyes, pops throughout. Dick Cavett and Robert Goulet each have brief executive producer cameos. Problematic performer number two—after the doom-laden Baldwin, is the pedo-principal from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, who pops up periodically to harsh our mellow.
That brings us to the oddity that is Michael Keaton. Cruising Dante’s air-conditioned “Inferno Room” full of hookers, we’re ceremoniously introduced to the most eligible bachelor since Valentino; the cockroach-eating pervert, Betelgeuse—I can only assume this original spelling caused a ruckus in the marketing department as no one could pronounce it. I could see Keaton doing a full stand-up show as Betelgeuse, but it would more than likely go sideways like a Bobcat Goldthwait special where you quickly get sick of the shtick. In my youth, I found the anticipatory mystique surrounding the character of Betelgeuse fascinating. I recall waiting to see him, and relished all of his disgusting appearances. I vividly remember the moment where he honks himself and hollers, “Nice fucking model!” as it was always cut for television.
Only a visionary could imagine the otherworldly quirks of Harry Belafonte tunes working so well here. Beginning with his “Day-O (The Banana Boat Song)” accompaniment to the table possession, and eternally sealed by the levitating Lydia dancing—now inseparably and iconically accompanied by Belafonte’s “Jump in the Line (Shake, Senora).” These calypso tunes are shrewdly scattered throughout, much like Cat Stevens was in Harold and Maude. Speaking of Hal Ashby’s peculiar and profound picture, the deathly appearances of the Maitlands even echo Harold’s faux suicides, revealing what was, I’m sure, an influence on Burton.
Where else could you possibly witness an attractive, suicidal, green Miss Argentina receptionist, a charred (literally smoking) Marlboro red shaky man, a run over flat guy, a little preacher with an alien head, skeleton office workers, a shrunken headed chap, a blue lady with separate legs and torso, a three fingered typist, a dumb dead football player, and a very dumb dead football player?
The crackers dénouement is lifted tenfold by Danny Elfman’s grandiose, raucous score—elevating the kooky picture on more occasions than I could count. The way that opening tableau tracking shot seamlessly and mysteriously merges into the giant tarantula trick miniature is an example of the meticulous skill and dexterous design at hand—from finger candles, to mirror gags, and levitation rigs—even the way Catherine O’Hara’s sculptures mirror and match Winona Ryder’s fringe feels intentional. In retrospect, although the shoddy rear projection of the sandworm segments plays kitschy in 2023, it’s somehow softened by the charm of the crude, yet appealing handmade stop motion animation.
Beetlejuice Drinking Game
Now, please join hands, and enjoy (responsibly) this doom and gloom Beetlejuice drinkalong. Simply sup thine pint, or bevoir of choice when…
Goth angst is expressed—predominantly by Lydia
Somebody says, “Betelgeuse”
Calypso music plays
A Sandworm appears
The Handbook for the Recently Deceased is seen, or consulted
Afterworld admin—the bureaucratic red-tape of the hereafter is negotiated
Once upon a time, I had this UK horror/fantasy film magazine—kind of like Fangoria, but not. The name escapes me, but it featured a run down of the practical effects work in Hocus Pocus—the guy’s mouth sewn shut, and Army of Darkness, with its various Deadite designs, Evil Ash, etc. I’ll have been no older than 10, and those images seared into my brain and stayed with me. I didn’t see Army until a “bootleg version” inexplicably titled, Bruce Campbell vs. Army of Darkness, wrapped in phony brown paper bag DVD packaging, arrived on region 1 US DVD circa the early noughties. As a Brit, I didn’t grow up watching Raimi’s beloved Three Stooges. In fact, I’ve still never seen anything in full, but as a child of the ’80s, I did religiously absorb Blackadder, The Young Ones, and Bottom, which all helped prepare me for its slapstick elements. Speaking of the genius, Rik Mayall, there’s a hilarious Drop Dead Fred-esque face-stretching incident in Army when Ash picks the wrong Necronomicon.
Love is blind, and I love Army of Darkness. For all its faults and flaws, inconsistencies, and glaring mistakes, it’s a joke that I am happily in on. Is horror/fantasy Allhalloween appropriate? For me, unequivocally yes. Although it has crones, thunder and lightning storms, and howling at the moon, I was still slightly concerned whether a magic spells, swords and sorcery story would be the ideal tonal fit for Hallowe’en, but it really plays. Army of Darkness—the ultimate experience in medieval horror—what is essentially Evil Dead III, aka The Medieval Dead is my daft as a brush, skeleton-packed, off-the-wall faux-epic pick to keep you cackling after 8pm.
The year is 1300 A.D. and our ol’ mate—the long tormented (mostly by Sam Raimi) sap stranded in, or out of time, Ash—after being sucked through a mind-bending vortex along with Sam’s trusty Oldsmobile at the climax of the previous picture, finds himself a shackled, pilloried, and whipped prisoner. After impressing the primates with his twelve gauge Remington “boomstick” from the sporting goods department of S-Mart, the peasants begin to hail “he who has come from the sky,” laying on a harem of wenches who feed him grapes as he scoffs chicken legs like he’s Henry VIII. However, the foolishness and spinelessness of Ash means disaster is always just around the corner.
Evil Dead II is a cinematic bible to me, and I completely adore KNB’s (Kurtzmann, Nicotero, and Berger) practical puppetry, make up, and Army of Darkness Deadites, especially as they were working 24/7 on a measly $800 a week for this non-union shoot. How folks can say these effects aren’t masterly is beyond me. Army is incredibly cinematic—whether it be the forest of bendy rubber trees, Introvision front-projection composites, force perspective miniatures, matte paintings, the “she-bitch,” or the flying Green Goblin Deadite attacks. 86 minutes really flies by.
Earmuffs, “Ringers,” but the final flurry castle raid is arguably better than the battle for Helm’s Deep, and for my money, any Game of Thrones episode. Does The Two Towers have a squadron of talking crossbow skeletons? Nope. Does GoT have a ginger-bearded, bony bagpipe band with a femur flute soloist? Don’t think so. I easily get battle fatigue during these kinds of lengthy clashes, but the theatrical cut of Army pitches it just about right. Elements of a personal fave, 1991’s Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves also leapt out, including throwing the ladder down, Ash cutting the rope and flying up the castle side, and impaling an attacking witch with a spear using her own momentum to skewer her.
Campbell continuously moans that Army should be a PG as opposed to an R, but having said that, censorship when done right isn’t simply the arbitrary exclusions of sex, violence, and cussin’—it’s about eliminating potential mimicry. Yes, this is a film that features loquacious skellingtons and a spurting blood geyser, but a man also skillets his face off a hot stove, and pours boiling hot water down his throat, which (crucially, as far as censors are concerned) doesn’t burn him—and perhaps most egregiously, the movie features a quite disturbing, gropey sexual assault of Sheila in the presence of the newly resurrected, exhumed, skeletal Army of the Dead.
Bruce Campbell antagonist and director of Army of Darkness, Sam Raimi, can be witnessed wearing a French beret, barking theatrical directions into a megaphone like a certifiable Cecil B DeMille. Raimi allegedly briefed youthful cinematographer, Bill Pope (Darkman, The Matrix, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, Baby Driver) on his ways of working prior to hiring him, saying words to the effect of, “So, buddy. I’m gonna tell you exactly where to put the camera, how high to put the camera, what lens to put on the camera, where I want the camera to move to, how fast, and what speed.” When Pope agreed to those terms, Raimi conceded, “Actually, I have no idea about lenses, or light, or any of that stuff. I was just testing you to see if I could push you around.”
There’s something mechanical, almost clockwork about Raimi and Pope’s palpable, creative cinematography here—the nonstop intricate ballet between the camera operator, and Bruce, with the precision of the moves contrarily retaining a handmade feel. It’s brilliantly shot and lit, and without doubt, one of the most visually inventive films I’ve ever seen. The classic “force” POV splitting tree trunks in half in its wake, the swaying camerawork eliciting feelings of queasiness and vertigo, and that incredible tracking shot with all the characters turning camera left, and ending on Bruce, as everyone eyes Ash is a real sight for sore bones. Traditional film grammar aside, this is a movie that expresses itself using every kind of shot you could possibly imagine, but it’s also fluent in cinematic punctuation—the communicative way moments are emphasised and underlined. Raimi’s kinetic skills always shine though, no matter how absurd it gets.
Whether he’s in a Hitchcockian shirt and tie, smoking endless cigarettes, calling everyone “buddy,” tormenting Bruce by making him flap his arms and squawk like a chicken, or run around with his foot nailed to the floor, Raimi abuses his directorial authority in the most mischievous of ways. Some directors acquire positions of power to get laid—Raimi just wanted to chuck dummy skeletons at Bruce from off camera. He has an uncanny knack for filling his frames meticulously and unsparingly—creating, at times, an overwhelmingly detailed sensory experience. Take the fantastically immersive nature of Army‘s Skywalker Sound mix. Raimi’s crash zooms are accentuated by the clanking of cast iron hits during Ash’s gearing up. I adore the Army of the Dead’s ADR ad libs—it’s all so dense, and when the skeletons start chattering away, that’s some of my most treasured stuff. The film editing credit, “R.O.C. Sandstorm” was actually a Sam Raimi pseudonym, as after the his previous picture, Darkman was recut by Universal against his wishes, he had to boldly, and covertly tinker with the movie a mere 48 hours before release. Sam resolutely did not want history to repeat, so opted to infiltrate his own edit room undercover with support from long-time collaborator, Robert Tapert.
Personally, I could watch exploding skeletons all day long. Alas, Dino De Laurentiis would disagree. “Let’s have two skeletons blowing up instead of five,” De Laurentiis would dictate, as a method of slashing Army‘s run time down. Sam’s half of the movie—the bits he edited, ended up quite lengthy and less disciplined—some may argue, overindulgent. Raimi allegedly said to his editor, “Dino is old, and he won’t remember his notes, so you don’t have to follow them.” Then Dino would become enraged because he did remember, and after making specific requests, there were still five exploding skeletons instead of two. The “I slept too long!” ending with Joseph LoDuca’s enormous, booming score (Danny Elfman’s involvement was limited to a single “The March of the Dead” cue) was legitimately disturbing back in the day. In spite of Army being an overtly daft film—same with Evil Dead II, which I saw aged 15 or so, and was horrified by Ted Raimi’s sweet Henrietta, then found myself suddenly laughing along with my school mates, Rob and Phil, and then secretly scared again. It was, and still is, the perfect balancing act of humour and horror. Army teeters more on the precipice of silliness, and occasionally stumbles and plummets over the edge, but in the interest of sheer Hallowe’en spirit—enjoyment and laughter as well as terror, it fits the brief.
This alternate, Planet of the Apes-esque conclusion from the longer cut definitely has its tragic merits, but I much prefer the action-packed, upbeat, heroic, S-Mart-set, hideous horror hag ending from the truncated theatrical—sans the former’s spliced back in, lower quality scenes. It’s (I believe) canonical in terms of what followed, although I’m not proficient. The Evil Dead films are very much a closed loop trilogy to me. As Gali often says, the series has “grown arms and legs.” The 86-minute theatrical also boasts the, “Come get some,” and “Hail to the king, baby,” zingers that 1996’s Duke Nukem 3-D so shamelessly stole, as well as Robbie Hart’s jilting fiancée from The Wedding Singer (in the Van Halen T-shirt), making out with Bruce. Mournfully, the edit room floor eradication of Charles Napier as Ash’s boss is, I’m sure, one of cinema’s greatest tragedies.
Army of Darkness is a complete oddity in the sense that Universal, and De Laurentiis forked $11 million in the first place to produce a picture with a deliberately dislikable and contemptible coward as their lead protagonist. Army is, in a way, the pinnacle of the Evil Dead series in respect to the character of Ash, but it’s not as representative, harsh, or as darkly visceral and frightening as Evil Dead II. Bruce Campbell is Buster Keaton in Dead By Dawn—plate smashing and body flipping, but here he’s Elvis Presley. Campbell is comedically adept, physically fit—in peak condition, and dare I say devilishly handsome—to the degree that we are forced to ponder why he wasn’t a bigger commercial star.
Having said that, in the longer bootleg cut, the contentious slapstick windmill segment is twice as long as the theatrical, and feels thrice as long. Although a tad long-winded and annoyingly broad—and featuring the obnoxiously goofy mini-Ashes, it’s essentially another nifty Bruce Campbell one-man show. His solo second act here is admittedly hard to swallow at times, as the more compelling and comical moments revolve around Ash interacting with the medieval folk. Let’s just be grateful the fabled deleted sequence, in which Ash gets caught up in a can-can line of dancing skeletons was vetoed, as that may have represented the crossing of a tonal line in the sand. Although, I still don’t think I’d hate it.
Of course, Campbell is not entirely alone here. There’s the striking Embeth Davidtz (Schindler’s List), with her truly creepy pallid transformation into Evil Sheila, “Chop Top” Bill Mosley (The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, House of 1000 Corpses, The Devil’s Rejects), a bafflingly brief Bridget Fonda cameo (she loved the first two movies), as our third different Linda, and loyal brotherly stalwart, Ted Raimi pops up in count ‘em, four roles—Cowardly Warrior, Supportive Villager, S-Mart Clerk, and Brave Fighter.
Mixed and middling reviews, meshed with a strange marketing ploy to sell the film as if it were somehow detached from the beloved Evil Dead series, as opposed to the essential, climactic third part of a trilogy, sent Army hurtling into the cult classic category like a catapulted skull. Those primates, Siskel and Ebert—like stuffy grandparents were never willing or able to understand Army of Darkness, and that suits me just fine, cos who’d want to glance around and see those two critics’ corner squares at your happenin’ Hallowe’en gathering? Miserable bags of bones.
With the kind of inane nattering that would be more at home at a bus stop than on a film criticism TV chat show, America’s dumbest critical duo barely scratched the surface of anything they reviewed on At the Movies, and Raimi’s sequel was no exception. Their primitive intellects wouldn’t understand alloys and compositions, and things with molecular structures, slapstick coughing skeletons, botched incantations, or flying Deadites. In Gene Siskel’s unsurprisingly smug, joyless, sarcastic, condescending faux-analysis, he whinged that Army of Darkness didn’t have the wit of Back to the Future. Only a soulless, movie-misunderstander such as Siskel would view this highly humorous, film-literate homage as “a rip-off of Ray Harryhausen’s (Jason and the Argonauts) stop motion skeletons,” and cruelly remark that, “They’re more compelling than any of the humans in the film.” I mean, what is wrong with this geezer? At least Roger Ebert praised the film’s effects, and felt Raimi was making The Naked Gun of horror by spoofing medieval warfare films—which isn’t quite on the money, but not a million miles from the truth. He also stuck up for Bruce by saying Campbell does exactly what the role calls for.
Right. It’s unquestionably time to put the brood to bed, and anyone squeamish, or overly concerned about nudity can step out now, too. From Kevin Tenney, director of Witchboard, comes, “a slasher film with no slasher.” Don’t scoff any razorblade apples, whatever you do, because we’re entering the closet belonging to our acid-head mother for a movie I wasn’t familiar with until researching this saga—1988’s Night of the Demons. This film had its original title of Halloween Party blocked by the Michael Myers Halloween franchise overlord—Syrian-American movie mogul, Moustapha Akkad, who threatened a spoilsport lawsuit for infringing on his beloved cash cow.
This one is set on Hallowe’en night, so that’s a promising start. The opening shot of Night of the Demons is rock ‘n’ roll blaring from a teenagers’ car somewhere in the suburbs, with a pumpkin stuck on their roof, and a fat bloke half-arsedly dressed as a pig, calling his female friend a bitch and yelling, “Happy Halloween… asshole!” at a curmudgeonly pensioner. That paints a pretty accurate picture of what will follow. The adolescents sack off their lame-o high school dance in favor of bohemian misfit, Angela’s gothic gathering at Hull House—a now abandoned crematorium by the cemetery where the funeral parlor owners just happened to go full maniac at Hallowe’en years before. As the teen bozos party into the night, Angela’s sexy séance transforms the snarky dudes, and dudesses into hideous demonic creatures of the night, who begin to kill and devour one another.
As her crude, wisecracking little brother, Billy would put it—nice gal Alice in Wonderland with the “bodacious boobies” or “big cha-chas,” Judy is our prudent female lead. In addition to this “pretty little piece,” the malleable-mouthed, lipstick boob artist and doll faced, Suzanne is played with saucy relish by an arse-out Linnea Quigley (Nightmare Sisters, Savage Streets, the aerobic spoof, Linnea Quigley’s Horror Workout, Assault of the Party Nerds 2: The Heavy Petting Detective, Girls Gone Dead) who—Meet Me Halfway bonus edition—is introduced to us properly bent over, perusing Tide detergents with a full screen upskirt of her pink-pantied posterior. Which is how she spends the majority of the movie, actually—flashing anything and everything, front and back, in a frilly pink dress—distracting convenience store employees whilst Angela robs booze and snacks.
Linnea quite confidently owns this role, yet in spite of Night of the Demons only being 3 years later, she doesn’t hit the mindbogglingly bewitching physical heights of the equally nudie, Return of the Living Dead. A stand out gross out moment for her is when future Quigley beau and special-effects dude, Steve Johnson’s effects (Ghostbusters, Fright Night, Dead Heat, A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master) aid her inexplicably, but quite seamlessly with a Cronenbergian body horror technique, as Suzanne stuffs her lipstick inside an invisible nipple cavity.
Night of the Demons feels kind of porno-sleazy; a bit naughty, and the gore is legitimately repulsive at times. It revolves around perversion, and screwy characters who just want to fool around. They talk about cute boys, and the bros are awful to the chicks, with a plethora of insults and awful behavior—especially the fat, John Belushi-aping, pig-man slob, Stooge—whose abusive language eventually meets its match with Angela‘s tongue-gobbling, feminist revenge. But even the so-called nice guys like Jay, whose jock head is turned at the slightest attractive female presence, leaps at the chance to ditch his date, Judy.
Then there’s the pirate, Alvin Alexis as the not so jolly Rodger—with his (almost) perpetually, glum expression—breaking new ground as perhaps the first African American slasher secondary to live through to the completion of a horror film (don’t check that, it’s likely spurious). Although, I did discover a few comments from people of colour appreciating that Rodger made it to the end—albeit as the result of cowardly, sensible decisions and logical, rational choices, bordering on scaredy-cat tactics—such as spending a chunk of the film hiding in a car. Rodger really represents the audience here as he’s arguably one of the only likable characters.
Night of the Demons racks up the nudity, and the fake-out jump scares with a multitude of boos, woo-hoos, and ooga-boogas. There’s skulls and sarcasm, wrong turns, low-lying mist, pratfalls and pranks, candelabras, strategically placed pumpkins, and characters in costume—Max and Frannie as a doctor and, I assume, his patient, brewskis, dirt bags hiding in coffins, doors slamming of their own volition, broken down cars, and broken mirrors—speaking of which, the Pat Benatar Best Shot Award goes to the bit that cleverly captures and neatly frames our entire ensemble, if you will, in the shattered shards of glass, framing everyone perfectly. Technically speaking, it’s a marvellous composition. Along with the Beetlejuice-esque finger-candles gag, and wild contra-zooms, Evil Dead fans will instantly clock the demon force POV—although clearly a rip-off, it’s homaged stylishly with shameless bravado. Night of the Demons‘ dynamic, mobile camera feels firmly in the vein of Raimi—as is the spurting eye-gouge, and over the top, Kewpie doll makeup, which is seemingly pinched from Linda in the 1981 original.
This pick comes with caveats—the score is cacophonous and a bit maddening with its naff, intermittent keyboard stings—honestly, there’s a fraction too much snarling and gurgling in dimly lit hallways, but perfectly executed camera moves like the 90° rotation during the mortuary make out between Judy and Jay, the 360° Angela and Stooge smooch, plus the harsh barbed wire wall climb, which is cringily visceral, and in contrast to the bloody theatrics of what has come before, actually gets under your skin. The motion control, double exposure-showcasing title sequence is also certainly a visual highlight, but it’s unquestionably Angela’s provocatively-possessed, cheeky full moon-flashing, “Stigmata Martyr” spinning and twirling fireside waltz that really takes the cake. Her Cleo Rocos-esque, bendy grind n’ crawl, and strobed strut in fingerless gloves—arched almost supernaturally in black lingerie, marks Night of the Demons‘ second exposed derrière, and much like movies such as Vamp, or From Dusk Till Dawn, it’s a strategically-placed, seductive segue, which serves to transition audiences into the gory second half of the picture.
The midnight hour is upon us! First, they undress you, then they possess you. It’s time to turn in, or turn on! I may be a total creep for picking it, but this sleazy slot belongs to Fred Olen Ray’s Evil Toons—the dumbest, shortest, sleaziest horror I could exhume from my psyche. My rationale was, you’re probably feeling a bit silly by now—your brain is almost certainly kaput, you’re probably sloshed, cream-crackered, or just plain sick of horror movies. So send the weans to bed, and all sane-minded or sober companions home. The stage is set for Evil Toons—a lowbrow, spoofy send-up of haunted house films with one seemingly original conceit—human-on-drawing commingling. This particular kink went public in the weighty commercial wake of Cool World, Space Jam, and most notably, 1988’s tantalising Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Olen Ray leapt on the bandwagon, and chucked a pervy, animated wolf that’s on screen for a mere one minute and 30 seconds into his campy slasher. And yes, there’s just the one titular “evil toon”—rendering the title itself a bald-faced lie. The composite photography, animation, and rotoscoping isn’t half bad—there’s just barely any of it.
Made for the HBO/Showtime market before the scream queen movie bubble popped with 1995’s Witch Academy, and shot simultaneously with/overlapping Olen Ray’s Spirits from 1990, Evil Toons was purportedly shot in just eight days for $140,000. I thought Night of the Demons was my proud, new trashy discovery, but this takes the cheese biscuit—a spooky, erotic, fantasy horror-comedy with a murderous hell house softcore porno plot. From the director behind Hollywood ChainSaw Hookers, Scream Queen Hot Tub Party, Attack of the 60-Foot Centerfold, Bikini Frankenstein, and Harlots of the Caribbean: Dead Girl’s Chest. I’m uncertain how many of those are “legit” films, and how many are merely softcore porn. Here, Gary Graver’s Halloweeny photography occasionally pops, Sherman Scott’s (actually writer/director Fred Olen Ray’s pseudonym, as he didn’t like seeing his name appear too many times in the credits) dumb as a rock—yet admittedly self-aware screenplay leaves an awful lot to be desired, and Chuck Serino’s music peculiarly seems to play at wrong, inopportune moments. Inexplicably, monotonous score music drones over what would’ve otherwise been fairly effective jump scares. It’s almost as if they rushed this through post-production! Of course, when the tit-mad Olen Ray does miraculously carve out a moment of suspense, the telltale, soon-to-be animated wolf effects shots have decreased in quality to such a massive degree, that the moment is robbed of any real tension or unease—we instantly twig that the monster is about to pop out.
You won’t be shocked to hear there’s nothing particularly clever going on—ever, but Evil Toons does have the retro, clunky charm of a scene from the video game Night Trap, or the gentler aspects of countless slashers of the day. The acting resembles an average episode of Baywatch, and is about as intellectually challenging. It’s about as scary as Scooby Doo, with hokey horror tropes such as exaggerated, hysterical screaming, constant thunderstorms, Mr Hinchlow’s lame jump scare, terminal hickeys, bloody nighties, demonic shape-shifting, ancient incantations, and kissing Beelzebub’s butt. However, it’s acutely genre-referential in a tongue-in-cheek fashion, and self-aware to the point where the gals actually reference it directly. For example, there are pre-Scream, genre-savvy lines like, “It’s a dark, stormy night and we’re four young, attractive girls in a big, spooky house all alone. If we don’t go downstairs one at a time, how will we ever get bumped off without the others knowing about it?” and “How come every time you stay in an old, spooky house it has to lightning and thunder?”
Burt, played by the eternally-welcome Dick Miller (The Terminator, Gremlins)—who, hilariously for some reason, doesn’t know what a contortionist is—arrives in a white van creeper-mobile, resembling something Buffalo Bill might pop to Sofology® in, but chock full of hot, consenting coeds—these sorority chicks are set to score 100 bucks a piece if they can clean the house, stay overnight, and get picked up the next day with a spick and span home ready for the new owners to occupy. Burt calls these lasses “kids,” but if I’m generous, the youngest among them probably looks around 28, and as for the eldest—plucky, maternal cougar, team leader, and Olen Ray squeeze, Suzanne Ager (Inner Sanctum, The Bikini Carwash Company, and Buford’s Beach Bunnies) as Terry, could, in all honesty, pass for mid-to-late 40s—or older, depending on the camera angle and lighting. Of course, you’d never suspect it from the director’s male gazey, caboose-showcasing, reverse angle of her bent over backside as all the ladies’ arced, lined-up rears are boldly pointed skyward whilst retrieving cleaning products from Burt’s van.
All is going well with our motley crew of porno actresses and low-end scream queens until creepy bloke, David Carradine (Kung-Fu, Bound for Glory, Kill Bill) delivers a book with a face on it—a Kandarian warlock’s demon spells from late 17th century England, brought to America by Gideon Fisk in the early 1930s, and the pesky source of all the problems plaguing the house. Another 40-year-old college “kid,” Biff Bullock isn’t the only thing that’s turning up around midnight—expect some hair-raising company, and a bit of soul eating, as it captures fresh souls to go to hell (providing they’re tangy, but not too tart).
Alongside bird-woman, Terry, is the shy, smart girl, and “little miss egghead,” Megan—our bespectacled, sweatpants-adorned, preposterously well-endowed, virginial yet self-admiring redhead lead, played by 1982 Penthouse Pet, Monique Gabrilelle (Emmanuelle 5, Amazon Women on the Moon, Deathstalker II, Silk 2, and maybe most memorably to some, Bachelor Party—yeah, she’s that girl in the bedroom with Tom Hanks). A most diverting game to play during Evil Toons is closely watching Megan’s screams to detect if she’s actually stifling laughter—which is a lot of the time. Oddly, I didn’t mind at all, because it just shows how much of a laugh they’re all having making this daft movie. Gabrielle‘s ponytail even stands erect at one point to illustrate her petrified terror. In a film such as this, why there is no payoff for Megan’s apparent carnal cravings to be a promiscuous, sexually-liberated young woman is anybody’s guess. Perhaps the chaste must live on in horror—but that being said, everyone does anyway in this preposterously-plotted picture.
Adult film actress, Madison Stone is arguably the star—she’s on the video box cover, and makes for an interesting Google if you don’t mind clearing your history afterwards. Madison plays the raven-haired, spandex-clad, Roxanne—a Kathleen Hanna-esque, Pamela Adlon-y, sorta Shannon Doherty-alike, whose klutzy shenanigans—including bizarrely alluring, ditzy yet determined wine bottle opening techniques that inevitably result in upended legs, and whose striptease twerking pulled the football captain, made her a firm favourite—just don’t ask what she’s doing with that butter. The possessed incarnation of Roxanne is incapable of pouncing on and devouring any of her gal pals without first ripping their tops open to expose their chests, before gnawing at their throats—classic deployment of the jugs before jugulars rule. Jan may struggle to eat sandwiches, but still, the early ‘90s feathered hairdo’d blondie, Stacy Nix, is another fave, and is—prepare to go incognito, trivia fans, also a porn actress, subsequently renamed, “Barbara Dare.”
As much as an enlightened, modern gent can get a kick out of the audacious, abundant T and A on display here, I’m not sure I could’ve justified picking Evil Toons without the sheer movie presence of the male supporting cast—namely the aforementioned Dick Miller, and David Carradine. Kill Bill Carradine turns up looking like a cross between a dirty Doc Brown, and the 1990s incarnation of WWF superstar, The Undertaker. In a bit of future Bangkok, fishnet-wearing, bondage in a closet foreshadowing, Carradine—who filmed for perhaps a day or two, but is peppered throughout the entire movie, hangs himself in the opening moments *insert sadomasochistic, auto-erotic asphyxiation joke here.* The ham and cheese-flavoured Carradine plays Gideon Fisk—lurking and loitering aimlessly, clutching pretty much the exact Necronomicon—the smirking, human flesh-bound book from The Evil Dead—if it was sold on Wish.
There’s a commendably meta moment where “that guy” Dick Miller is watching himself lose his cat in 1959’s horror/comedy, A Bucket of Blood—no doubt because it’s public domain, whilst smoking one of his trademark cigars. Before his inexplicably attractive girlfriend—the lingerie-clad scream queen, Michelle Bauer (Café Flesh, Tied & Tickled, Night of the Living Babes, Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama, and Assault of the Party Nerds Part 2: Heavy Petting Detective—I could go on) cameo helps sell a half-decent sex toy jackhammer gag. I’d watch Dick do almost anything—even read the Transylvania yellow pages, but the scene here, in which he is fellated by a fanged Roxanne, and caterwauls, “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy… oh my Gooood!” hilariously like he’s in a pervy pantomime, really pushed that rule to its limit. I’m lying—it’s probably the best bit, and in my mind, is now way up there with Miller and Schwarzenegger’s gun shop interaction in The Terminator.
Granted, there’s not enough of the Roger Rabbit-style, live action and animation blending, and what does exist is fleeting. Evil Toons lures us in with the (crossed fingers) broken exploitation promise of sexually deviant cartoon characters running wild, and delivers very little of it. Hoodwinked by a title! The somewhat shrewd writer/director, Olen Ray pulled the ol’ bait and switch, substituting toons for titties. The twisted yet tempting potential for sexual liaisons between alluring ladies and raunchy renderings was the uniquely kinky kicker required to pitch and sell the movie, but we only get one such encounter, and it’s actually a frankly unpleasant and violent assault. When it finally arrives, there’s nothing titillating about the scene—we watch aghast, and then it promptly passes.
If anything’s unsettling about any of the films I picked, it’s Evil Toons, as the juxtaposition of childlike animation, abundant female nudity, and toon-rape are all employed amidst an amusingly scored softcore sequence. The monster is essentially just a rubbish Tasmanian devil; a dirty talking, ravenous cartoon wolf. He’s generic, but he’s a killer. Of course, when the perverse pangs of guilt inevitably hit us, we can rest assured, the cast are all in on it—everyone involved in this movie knows exactly what kind of film it is, and presumably, as long as the cheques clear, they’re all A-OK with it. This is neither the most misogynistic, nor exploitative motion picture these women have chosen to endure in their careers. What rescues Evil Toons from unforgivable seediness is, the girls are having as much fun as the audience, which makes it charming, comparatively gentle when compared to -other slasher films, and unadulterated, campy fun with an all’s-well-that-ends-well ending—in which the ghostly Kill Bill declares the demons never existed, and neither did he, before vanishing in a cloak of electric lightning.
Evil Toons is another Evil Dead-adjacent, book of spells come down, and has quickly become the guiltiest of all my guilty horror movie pleasures. It’s the kind of zero effort pleasure you may take from meditation—just zoning out; the kind of film you wish you’d caught on late night telly when you were 12 or 13, and beyond. Can I, in all good faith, recommend it? Yeah, go on then. Evil Toons exists solely as a silly, naughty nudie romp—a delicious, brainless cheesecake, perfect for a midnight unwind—and not once was my brain used! If you’re still uncertain, what are you chickens waiting for? Just heed these wise words, “Remember, in times of trouble, let your conscience be your guide.”
Street Trash aka Horror in Bowery Street screams post-Vietnam, pre-Giuliani, Reagan-ruled ‘80s NYC with its toxic-wasted, radioactive neon, vibrantly vandalised milieu, and dirty depictions of nefarious blown-up hobos. It’s a chaotic and frantic stink bomb of a picture, and as its adroitly articulated tone-setting imagery seeps into our eyeballs, we feel precisely as it intends us to feel—like a bum jumping in the back of a garbage truck, or a geezer ripping a fart in a thieving tramp’s face. I would also submit that only in Street Trash will you witness such a carefully deployed insert of a flabby, running man’s gut.
When a liquor store owner roots out a crate full of Viper—a 60-year-old poison booze once wisely pulled from the market, capitalism dictates he can probs get a buck a bottle—where’s the harm in that, eh? This endeavour inexplicably results in dissolving, disintegrating, and exploding vagrants—giving a whole new meaning to rotgut whisky. Filmed on location in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, and based on an original 1984 short also directed by Jim Muro aka Jimmy Muro Jr aka J. Michael Muro, its freakish screen credits include: Drunken Wench, Melted Businessman, Bitchy Businesswoman, Exploding Derelict, Dismembered Derelict, Wheelchair Derelict, Receptive Whore in Van, Whore on Telephone, Other Whores in Van, Smoking Derelict, Viet Cong Vampires, Sundry Junkyard Bums, Perverted Rottweiler, and Fire Escape Cat.
There is, of course, the guilt of demonising the disenfranchised to get over, and then there’s the hurdle of holding down your lunch, but once you do that—if you can, it could be argued that Street Trash is a cognizant art film. Are we witnessing the bravery of a movie that dares to scream at an audience who can’t deal with reality? Is the goop merely Muro’s paint splashed upon a New York City junkyard canvas of rusty fire escapes and corroded old cars? Is Street Trash sharp, socio-political satire with something to say? Is it the dirt and grime; the melty, jelly napalmed, cannibalistic, hungover horrors of war, viewed through the prism of a downtrodden American trash-class—the bastard sons and disregarded daughters of an abusive nation? However, every time my mind made a leap to detect or decipher said socio-political satire, I was either too dumb, too British, or giving Street Trash far too much credit. It’s also possible, of course, that the film is nothing but a deeply insensitive exploitation of wartime PTSD, the U.S. underclass, or just a nasty piece of work.
Confidently provocative, queasy on the eye, and akin to a sleazier—and more depraved, junkyard John Waters, Street Trash is a lurid, effervescent, repugnant, rancid rainbow bumspoitation slime-fest—and much like the pulpy mess it often depicts, it’s sadly an unformed mass of matter as opposed to an artful brushstroke—or even a Jackson Pollock-esque pebble-dash splatter, but it’s also simultaneously too dumb to really be upsetting; too despicable to be fun or really funny. I filed it as a misguided sendup with nothing at all to say, but plenty of content to shallowly offend, which is a shame because all it really would’ve taken is an afternoon of considering what this piece could possibly mean during the writing stages, and yet evidently no one bothered—no one had the forethought or good sense to do just that, which is what divides it from the truly great satirical horrors such as Romero’s Dawn, or the skewering social commentary of a cutting-edge Cronenberg. The scariest quality of Street Trash—though it’s not really supposed to be scary, is that it had the ghastly potential to drag us anywhere at any point. I felt that literally anything could happen at any given moment, and that so rarely occurs in cinema in this day and age.
The influence of Sam Raimi’s The Evil Dead is so prevalent it cannot even be measured. As with other, at a glance trashy, cheap, chuckaway, gross-out flicks, there’s a strong case for the photography—see Braindead aka Dead Alive—they’re often inventively shot and lit, and David Sperling’s mobile camera is no exception. His keen eye frames bright yellow buildings, and clear blue sky backdrops. I love the opening tracking shot, which bought a lot of time with me cinematographically. I responded to the yellow on black title credit font. I was struck by the one sheet art, the multicoloured gunk, technicolor blood and guts, and the audacious attempt at non-intellectual body horror—how the sheer schlockiness of this stuff plays if you don’t happen to have the intellect of a David Cronenberg. Having said that, these bodily explosions unequivocally put Scanners to shame. It’s Troma-esque, but with—at the very least, a smidgen more technical ability and prowess.
The frankly insane sight of a homeless man being dissolved into a toilet covered in acrylic paint, with his severed hand still clutching the chain—his face now a blue liquid ooze in the bowl, will likely never leave me, and isn’t that what cinema—particularly horror cinema, is all about? Even the offy owner that looks like ELO’s Jeff Lynn melts horribly with red and orange sludge dripping down his trouser legs, and grotesquely attempts in vain to crawl off down the street. Winette, Bronson’s junkyard bit of skirt, perishes with leaking, multicoloured boobs before splashing herself across a rusty vehicle as part of a vague Vietnam recollection. The brash character of Bronson is a fully bonkers, Section 8 Nam vet, and self-designated king of the derelicts, who pulls the neighbourhood nomads’ strings—lording over them as an unhinged, abusive, roundhouse kicking, human femur bone-handled knife-wielding psychopath, and murderous puppet master.
Like scratching an itch you didn’t know you had, there’s something mesmerising, and pornographically compelling about colourful exploding people. A key case in point being Street Trash’s twisted answer to Violet Beauregard from Wonka—a bloke blowing up like a blueberry, popping like an infected zit, and spraying himself up a wall. Or take Wizzy—clawing open his own torso to reveal purple gore—a liquefying Freddy Krueger face, and then detonating like a dodgy bath bomb against the graffiti’d wall like a yucky Banksy—as if a big bag of Skittles had all melted together atop a strangely edible-looking ice cream cake. Not to forget the movie’s toxic, yellow crud dripping from stairwells, erupting toes, a cop whose special finishing move is to piss, or hurl on people, the gas canister decapitation, bum fights, a repugnant syphilitic perv, and an upskirt of death denoument ensuring Street Trash is sleazy to its bitter end.
The further Street Trash strays from the toxic booze and melting winos, the less I humoured it. The more depraved it became—and it is honestly filled with every despicable act that could possibly be imagined—I was turned off. It’s the cinematic equivalent of puking in an alley, or finding a muerto moggie in the rubbish. Having heeded this warning, if you are indeed compelled to see a man get his cock cut off, then have the dismembered member hoofed like a field goal, and lobbed across a scrap yard, a drunk gal taken back to a smoky salvage yard hovel only to be dragged away to an unknown fate by a ghoulish gaggle of animalistic and monstrous vagrant voyeurs, or perhaps most egregiously, a played for laughs, off-screen necrophiliac rape—all are on offer here. I’m relieved to say, comedically-scored sex attacks are not my cup of tea. Yes, it has been said that everything in life can be considered darkly humorous until it happens to us, but it’s a comic tightrope these filmmakers are not deft enough to negotiate—with dialogue resembling improv chatter from a bad dream, Street Trash plays as misjudged, and left a lingering bad taste.
How do we even begin to discuss, or write about our favourite films? Is Jaws the greatest ever? I can’t say—it’s so subjective. But it’s my favourite. I know that much. It’s perhaps impossible to express my deep-seated adoration for it, but let’s try. Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (once level-pegging) has, as of this year, been relegated to second place in my rankings, as although it’s technically superior in many ways to Jaws—the cinematography, labyrinthine depths of the tale, its applicability—it still doesn’t provide the primal buzz; the effervescent emotion, and sheer joy of Steven Spielberg’s 1975 classic.
As a naive lad, I was daft enough to rate the films in the Jaws series according to the demise of the shark. Air tank canister explosion vs power line chomping vs incineration vs skewered by the broken bow of Ellen Brody’s ship. I couldn’t quite detect why people viewed Jaws: The Revenge as a poor entry, and rewatched Jaws 2 endlessly for its shark electrocution denouement. I was, however, always cine-savvy enough to know that Jaws 3 was absolute shite. I’ve perhaps seen it just one and a half times in my entire life. Not even my Innerspace hero, Tuck (Dennis Quaid) Pendleton could salvage, or get me even remotely interested in that abomination. But the first is, simply put, everything I look for in a film. I revisit it once a year on average, sometimes more, and it flaws me every single time. I laugh, cry, always cheer at the end of the incendiary third act, and if it’s ever on telly, I must watch it to its beach-side conclusion.
Back in 2007, I was gearing-up to make the final, major production for my MA filmmaking degree. I was set to write and direct Sycamores—a vaguely amusing, but ultimately too cluttered, grandiose and ambitious, wannabe Wes Anderson (but British), Garden State-y, Hal Ashby’s Harold and Maude/Being There meets unintentional Preston Sturges story-steal (Hail the Conquering Hero) short film, that sadly fell apart when my producer (the only producer in my year, I might add) requested “changes.” So, I went back to the drawing board, and back home to Catterick Village—initially to sulk, and curse the film school, and then to regroup, rebuild, and rewrite something from scratch. I remember thinking, I’m 25 years old, and if this is the last film I ever make—it very nearly was, until recently (13 years later), when I wrapped The Self-Seers—what do I want it to be? What story do I want to tell, and what films and filmmakers do I want to draw influence from? The answer was undoubtedly Steven Spielberg and Jaws.
So, I dipped into a book I’d had since a few Christmases before—The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell Stories by Christopher Booker, and the very first chapter was entitled, “Overcoming the Monster.” It sounded so enduring, made total sense to me, and the stories and films Booker referenced were among my all-time favourites. I combined this revelation with a hunt through my old primary school work from the late ’80s and early ’90s, seeking inspiration from my earliest attempts to write stories. Serendipitously, I stumbled upon an X-Files rip-off and my monster in one fell swoop—a large, predatory wildcat, akin to the legendary Beast of Bodmin Moor, et al. The Wilds was born—a 15-minute short, shot on Super 16 (with an Arriflex SRII), about a farmer, whose community is plagued—and son is eventually slain by—a black panther-like creature, roaming the Yorkshire Dales, and must vengefully venture out alone to hunt and kill it. I sought the council of my best friend, Sam Hollis, who generously co-wrote the screenplay with me, and we got a green light from Leeds Metropolitan University to produce it together. Fans of The Rewind Movie Podcast should note, I choppered in The Northern Film School’s A-team of Gali (1st AD), Devlin (camera assistant), and friend of the show Joe Mac (gaffer), to aid the production.
The Wilds is basically Jaws, but where I grew up. Chief Brody is now a farmer, a kid dies, the ending is an homage to/pinched from the “Smile, you son of a bitch” closer, with our protagonist firing round after round, in a hail of gunfire, towards an oncoming monster dashing directly towards him. There’s a slow-motion climax, before our hero returns home triumphant, albeit with unshakable trauma from the tragedy that befell the town, and his family, forever in his mind. It’s all there, and honestly, most of that was unconsciously stolen. Being forced to select what could be the last crack you ever take at filmmaking was enlightening, as it unveiled what perhaps always was, and now certainly remains my favourite film.
I used to think Steven Spielberg made all the films. Spielberg, Frank Marshall, and Kathleen Kennedy, to be more exact, as their names were present on just about every opening credit sequence I absorbed as a kid. Amblin’s films were ubiquitous to say the least. With a batch of shorts from 1959-’68, Spielberg directed telly episodes of Night Gallery, Marcus Welby, M.D., and Columbo, before blowing the doors off with the hypnotically captivating TV movie, Duel, in 1971.
I tried to articulate this exact sentiment when it came to John McTiernan, and specifically his films, Predator and Die Hard—to me, Spielberg is always trustworthy, thoughtful, and considerate in terms of the audience, and these traits are what elevate him above other capable but unexceptional filmmakers. He’s completely concerned with either providing, or hiding information—from how his images are seen and interpreted, to precisely when the music plays. He’s in control, and we’re in his safe, steady hands—viewers can’t relax otherwise.
The genesis of several key scenes from Jaws was particularly revealing. Spielberg was understandably skeptical before signing on to direct, but liked the third act of the book so much, that he wrote a whole draft of the screenplay himself. He scripted the nighttime scene on the pier with Charlie and his buddy, and their holiday roast bait, where the jetty is dragged out to sea by the shark—that was all from Spielberg’s initial pass. We see it suddenly stop, and then terrifyingly turn—along with our stomachs. Again, it’s a skillful cinematic technique, and one of many Spielberg employed to show the shark without showing the shark.
I found it interesting that Spielberg chose to write and direct Close Encounters of the Third Kind next in 1977. I think he’s underrated as a writer—he’d already penned his short films, and cooked up the stories for The Sugarland Express in 1974 (which directly preceded Jaws), and following that, Poltergeist, and The Goonies, not to mention his A.I. Artificial Intelligence screenplay, and sole writing credit on his new film, The Fabelmans. Spielberg can undoubtedly write, but he intriguingly opts not to. He favours the vintage image of the Hollywood director, in the vein of his heroes—as overseer, as orchestrator—chipping in whenever he sees fit.
Could Jaws have been one notch better? A scripted, but never shot, suspense-horror death scene points to… perhaps. When reminded of this fabled would-be Jaws moment, I close my eyes and picture a gem that got away, featuring a harbormaster watching his TV, and in the background, we see the masts of the ships swaying outside—something is beneath, knocking them back and forth. One mast would lean, then another, and the next. We picture something travelling beneath the keels, but it remains unseen—much like with the barrels, it’s another shrewd method of illustrating the presence of the great white visually, without actually seeing the recalcitrant “great white turd” that was Bruce the shark (sorry, old friend)—instead, Spielberg merely suggests the presence of the creature. Of course, the harbormaster wanders onto the dock and leans down, towards the water, to clean out his coffee pot, and the shark takes him. That all sounds so Spielberg, and I wish it was part of the film. But maybe we should be careful what we wish for—with a film already at its two-hour maximum-satisfaction running time, and delicately balanced like a perfect meal, to be equally satisfying and nutritious, without leaving you feeling bloated, perhaps one extra ingredient could tip the scale, and sour an otherwise excellent dish.
Spielberg once famously said that without the now iconic score, Jaws would only be half as successful. Johnny Williams’ seesaw strings and swiftly plucked notes add up to a large percentage of why Jaws soars. Seemingly subconsciously stolen from the third movement of Ludwig van Beethoven’s “Symphony No. 7,” the deceptively simple theme has earned its longevity, universality, and never ending applicability. Listening to the score in isolation is really rewarding—the diversity of the cues does make me frustrated that many people’s memories of Jaws are reduced purely to those dual-noted dur-durs—although, the effective simplicity of it is equally admirable, for its articulation of an unerring primal pursuit, and the pitch-perfect personification of an unstoppable force of nature that is the carcharodon carcharias.
The “Shark Cage Fugue” is prettier than it ever needed to be. There’s an underwater majesty to something like “Ben Gardner’s Boat.” The “Montage” cue of the “summer ginks” arriving, is overtly playful and betrays the inescapable element of fun present throughout the film. One of my favourites, “Father and Son,” has hints of Raiders of the Lost Ark—another firm fave in terms of my all-time best scores. It’s a lovely piece, which delicately underlines and gently elevates an already beautiful scene between the Chief and Sean, during their mimicry dinner. “Out to Sea” blends beauty with foreboding, and underscores the suspenseful sequence of Quint getting a bite on his soon-to-be-snapped piano wire—the, “Marlin or a stingray” bit, and also has adventure elements, swiftly introducing character themes to follow, and crucially, the very end’s paddling away part. It’s textbook storytelling through music, and I can’t think of a time it’s ever been done better.
Jaws is never afraid to be joyous and jubilant in its execution—it’s in the music, it’s in the performances, but the score is what ultimately lifts it, distills that energy, and exhibits such gleaming pride in being a movie that is unashamedly entertaining for viewers. That’s cinema—score and image colliding to make something incredible, unforgettable, and greater than the sum of its parts. It’s an intricate, detailed symphony from Williams. As celebrated and revered as the score is today, I still think it’s underrated and gets somewhat overlooked—the depth, melody, and tonal shifts, are reduced to the simplistic one-note dread of the key motif—that often becomes the takeaway.
The piece that hits me like a ton of bricks, every time, is the sublime “Man Against Beast.” It has everything, and features—towards the end of the cue, my number one, favourite score moment in Jaws, when Hooper ties the barrel on, just in the nick of time, then exclaims, “Free another barrel! I’m comin’ around again!” as the music explodes into a pirate’s adventure time crescendo. The Chief is smiling, Hoop’s smiling—who says shark fishing has to be depressing? There’s a terrific shot of the Chief here, as they’re running down the yellow barrel, and they’re grinning ear-to-ear. Williams called it, “A moment of fanfare—of triumph.” These musical motifs, where the score just erupts, are his favourite moments, and I wholeheartedly agree. People once divided by their differences, petty quarrels and disputes; characters firmly at odds with one another, are suddenly united in their quest to hunt and kill this beast. That’s the stuff that underpins it all—the quest.
“Between Attacks” pinches Quint’s, “Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies” sea shanty. “Blown to Bits” is an orgasm of sound, as Sir George Martin would say, and “End Titles” is a perfect, all’s ok with the world relaxant, gently accompanying the Chief and Hooper landing intact on Amity’s sandy beach.
Spielberg once said, “Sometimes the simplest ideas are the best,” and I feel like it’s often a race to the finish line—to harness that simple idea, do it first, before anyone else, and do it better than they ever could—to set a standard; a precedent. When you have that brilliant idea, and execute it perfectly—that’s hard to beat, and I’m absolutely fervently against any remakes or sequels of Jaws, whether they involve Spielberg, or not. They just mustn’t. In fact, I believe any attempts to regurgitate and spew out the remnants of what once made Jaws great, would act in direct opposition with the contemporary audience’s taste—it would only serve to tarnish the original.
For me, the only way a sequel would ever have been even mildly acceptable, is if Jaws 2 was a prequel—the Indianapolis story, and it was directed by Spielberg himself in his late ’70s heyday, in place of say, 1941. But not now. Please, not now. Jaws couldn’t be remade, re-imagined, or sequelised, because the audience‘s attitude towards sharks has changed so vehemently, that they’d likely invoke toxic masculinity and undue violence towards animals in the early script meetings, and “cancel” Quint, Hooper, and Brody for their harpooning antics.
It’s dangerous aboard the Orca, and ultimately feels like a blunt test of masculinity. I know I’d struggle, as, like Brody—I’d like to imagine I’d have determination and grit when it mattered, but it would be a completely foreign experience. I’d be pulling the wrong lines, and standing in the wrong place—getting trapped against the boat when the rope gets tight. I’d be that guy, because I know nothing about fishing. I know nothing about hunting. I’m, quite unusually for me, in total admiration of these three as hunters. Instead of resenting them for killing this, to quote Hooper, “Beautiful” creature, I’m fully on board with the fact that this “monster” must be destroyed. I don’t think that could ever be the angle today. There would be vocal, shark fishing protesters with placards reading, “Justice for Bruce,” and “Quint Had It Comin’.”
Spielberg pitches the vilification of the shark just right, and that’s precisely the problem. Not once do we feel for the great white—not once. We want it dead. We want it blown to smithereens. It’s a killer; a ruthless, horror character, and it must be stopped. I agree, there are moral implications in demonising sharks, and I’m positive the expertly-crafted fear created by Jaws has sadly perpetuated the ongoing cruelty, and it’s shameful that people can be so stupid—but it’s a horror film; it’s fiction.
Among what I call, The HorrOscars, Jaws rests in good company, alongside The Exorcist, The Silence of the Lambs, The Sixth Sense, Black Swan, and Get Out, as the only “horror films” ever to be nominated for Best Picture. Although, it’s absolutely criminal that Spielberg didn’t get a nod. Absolute, categorical proof the Academy is a weird, arbitrary, political farce.
I maintain it’s a blind alley to judge a director on how expertly they can play a single note, and maintain that note throughout the running time—a true judge of a filmmaker is as a composer; as an artist, who can play our emotions as notes. In Jaws, one second we’re fearful, the next we’re belly-laughing, then we’re smiling to ourselves, recalling memories from our own lives, perhaps rolling a single tear, then we’re on tenterhooks once again, and it takes such delight in its cinematic manipulation.
I truly believe that certain films are blessed. Not by a divine hand—that would, among other things, insultingly detract from, and cheapen the very real skill and devotion of the cast and crew. Whether it’s luck—when opportunity and preparedness meet, or simply fortunate timing, sometimes a shooting star will align. I’m not religious, but some movies live and breathe, and some don’t—in fact, most don’t. There’s something lurking within Jaws, something beneath, that elevates it.
Re-watching Jaws is as pleasurable as spending time with an old friend—a mate who says all the same stuff, but neverdisappoints us, never lets us down, and always makes us laugh. It’s a film that sits patiently on my shelf, and when I need it, it’s there—waiting for me. I watched it for—I’m estimating, the 50th time, on my own recently, and when the Chief blows up the shark, I was clapping and crying like an idiot—like a blubbering fool. To paraphrase Trent in Swingers, maybe it’s because I had my own things going on, but I caught myself in a ridiculous, teary moment and I just didn’t care. I wasn’t embarrassed—I was so happy. It’s everything I want in a film. It’s so daft—a bloke blew up a shark, and I’m sobbing. I don’t know what to do with that information, or how I can explain it—it’s simply a magical movie.
Rarely, but sometimes, the best-selling band is the best. Occasionally, the biggest hit is also the best song. Sometimes the highest-grossing film is also the most accomplished and well-made. These things can align—and it happened with Jaws. The images directly relate to the human condition—our deepest fears are manifested on screen, and the film is constructed in such a way that it gives us exactly what we want—a safe nightmare. It delivers in the most satisfying way imaginable, with no life jacket required.
1980’s Roger Corman creature feature and New World Picture, Monster aka Humanoids from the Deep boasts an illustrious crew including Gale Anne Hurd (The Terminator) as a lowly production assistant, renowned film editor and Dead Heat helmer, Mark Goldblatt (Terminator 2: Judgment Day, Armageddon), and the late, great Oscar-winning James Horner (Titanic, Aliens) on musical duties. “Ruck Crew It Is” awards go to Rob Bottin (The Howling, The Thing), who created and designed the Humanoids—everyone has to start somewhere, eh? Also, Rowdy (Road House) Herrington was an electrician, and Steve Johnson (Ghostbusters) assisted with makeup and special effects. The picture is credited to director, Barbara Peeters—who by the sounds of it was executing things all too sensibly by choosing to keep the movie’s seaweedy sex attacks vague and shadowy, before being usurped by an uncredited Jimmy Murakami (Battle Beyond the Stars), who allegedly, at the request of Corman, favoured bonus T&A and a more explicitly depicted, sexploitative subplot, with second unit director, James Sbardellati (Deathstalker) also swooping in late to drizzle some extra sleazy sauce. If the version of Humanoids you have acquired shows the film’s on-screen title as Monster, then bully for you—it’s the complete and uncut European version.
If you’re as dense as me, you may be pondering what the fuck a cannery is, so I’ll save you the hassle of Googling it. A cannery is a factory where food is canned. I imagine you feel as stupid as I did, right? I think the general gist here is that these folks have been greedily slipping DNA-5 into the water to accelerate the growth of salmon, in order to rescue the commercial viability of their community—but it backfires by imposing gargantuan growth spurts on the fishies, and inadvertently creates rapey Humanoid monsters that cause absolute havoc. Now they want to mate with human women to extend their evolution! I’m slightly ashamed to say it, but I was in after hearing that synopsis.
The cast is hardly star-studded, but the soon-to-be killed on the set of John Landis’ Twilight Zone: The Movie, Kurt Vonnegut lookalike Vic Morrow pops up as Hank Slattery. I’ve got a real soft spot for Doug McClure as I watched him a lot as a lad in the cheapo dino submarine schlockbuster, The Land That Time Forgot—a film I know roughly every frame of, and that fuelled just about every Action Force (or G.I. Joe for any American friends) vs any old rubber dinosaurs I’d acquired from car boot sales, resulting in playtime scaling issues somehow worse than the film’s. Here, it’s difficult to tell if McClure is genuinely bamboozled, or playing it bewildered. Nevertheless, he’s hilariously watchable in a hammy performance—whether he’s discovering slime on a dog house, or trying some peculiar flirting. In Humanoids, he plays Jim Hill—the trigger-happy, king of the body warmers, flowery cowboy shirts, and stilted delivery. Poor McClure can’t even beckon someone over without doing it in a noticeably strange fashion. One minute he’s terrified and emotionally destroyed at the sight of a plethora of horribly murdered doggies, then in the very next scene, he’s grinning, or participating in perhaps the worst choreographed car park punch-up ever filmed.
I suppose they’re branded “Humanoids” as they really are just blokes in suits. It’s everything Alien thankfully wasn’t. These phony fish-men slice you open with their claws for a laugh, or if you have the misfortune of being an attractive female, do you from behind in the mucky sand. These fuckers also like to hide on the roof of your jeep, and smash your windscreen when you’re least expecting it. Fortunately, one can dispatch them with a few rifle blasts, a harpoon skewering, or failing that, try some drain cleaner or stab them with any knife from around the house. Perhaps the most memorable sequence in Monster is when the big-brained, barnacled Humanoids—sporting laughable, elephantine craniums, start smashing through the wooden boardwalk, attacking ladies, and slaughtering gents. It’s a budget massacre featuring loads of clawed-faced gore, with the Humanoids using their silly long arms to pull a fella’s head off, tear off limbs, and spray blood all over the pier—butchering DJs and bothering jiggling, tiara-adorned beauty queens. The creature on a merry-go-round alone may be worth tuning in for.
Monster’s naughty bits typically comprise of hot chicks frolicking, making out topless in the backs of trucks, and a ton of babes in underwear or out of their bikinis—stunning blondes conveniently draped in sheer nighties and sleepwear lingerie, an underwater ass-grab, and a shameless close-up bikini bottom bum-run. Another egregious sexual assault unfurls when an anthropomorphised ventriloquist dummy, its equally dumb owner, and surprise surprise—a lass with big knockers, get their tent ripped open by one of the sex-starved creatures, and the fully nude fleeing gal gets crudely violated amongst the seaweed.
Just as in Jaws, the filmmakers opt to utilise what seem like the real inhabitants of the town setting as extras, but here they can barely speak, let alone act. It’s tricky to tell what anyone is garbling on about most of the time—of course, it doesn’t matter at all. I lost count how many times they ripped off Spielberg’s shark spectacular—from Horner’s wannabe Williams score full of familiar tinges, also bonus Bernard Herrman-esque Psycho sting steals, and the thievery doesn’t end there—McLure’s Hill is a poor man’s Chief Brody, and the leggy, biologist photographer who knows more than she’s letting on—Corman-castigator, Ann Turkel (who later boycotted Humanoids over its superfluous nudity and exploitative nature) as Dr. Susan Drake, is a borderline Matt Hooper. There are nods and winks throughout—from tying off stern cleats, to lingering underwater POVs. They kill a nipper almost immediately, and then a hound too for good measure. Monster even features the most irresponsible use of gasoline on a boat since Jaws 2 where that daft woman cooks herself in her own petrol. The 75th Annual Noyo Salmon Festival is essentially Jaws’ Fourth of July, and the geezer giving the barracks speech does his best mayoral Murray Hamilton impression. A fisherman struggling to reel in a catch looks a lot like Quint with his piano wire, too—especially as the compositions are identical. They don’t even try to disguise it.
Humanoids shallowly showcases some old-fashioned American racism directed at the local Native American guy, but if you’re still on the fence, there’s a cool cutaway of an owl that rivals the raccoon witness from Wild Things, and it features the first—and perhaps only, dirty dishes jump scare in the entirety of cinema, which must count for something. It’s a film with far too many mid shots and nondescript coverage, resulting in quite inept storytelling and a lack of character differentiation. Once you’ve seen a few bubbly, underwater tussles and killin’s, you start wondering where the movie could possibly be going—thankfully, it’s incredibly short so c’est la vie. It certainly lacks the Joe Dante factor of Piranha, and the prestige of Jaws, but one merit of Monster is that it’s arguably bonkers enough in its performances and presentation to keep viewers—particularly altered ones, interested for a fairly breezy 80 minutes. As a caveat, the sordid plot may sound alright on paper, but it’s so klutzy, and very rarely has any kind of impact. As polished as the Shout Factory restoration may be, Humanoids is still largely amateurish and clunky in both its photography and execution. You get a free visor though if you watch this one.
It’s always easy in retrospect to play post-structuralist, but for context, Star Wars is considered a crowd-rallying, post-Watergate and Vietnam War phoenix from the flames. It truly was a period of civil war in the USA, with gritty, cynical pictures mirroring the upset country’s social and political anxieties. Enter George Walton Lucas Jr., hot on the tail of ’60s-set, teen rock & roll, American as a hamburger stand, cruisin’ street racer comedy-drama, American Graffiti, which went on to bank $100 million worldwide, the black-bearded wonderboy set his bespectacled sights solely on his passion project—a galactic fairy tale in the vein of The Odyssey, Beowulf, and the legend of King Arthur, which sought to distil these archetypal works down into universal motifs. Morality tale, traditional ritualistic coming-of-age story, call it what you will—Star Wars draws on the common connections between myths, and the threads that tie disparate cultures together.
20th Century Fox’s main man, Alan Ladd, Jr. jumped at the chance to invest—not primarily in the project itself, but in the genius of Lucas. George had little to no commercial desires, but the hyper-driven filmmaker was fueled by a fervent need to retain control of his own source material, and allow no one to interfere. “It’s fun to make films for young people, and it’s a chance to make an impression on them,” Lucas once said, revealing his enduring, pure of heart motive, which shines through even today. What began as another 1930s-style space opera, taking cues from Robin Hood, Treasure Island, and most notably, Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon, developed beyond measure when Lucas properly knuckled down and devoured the writings of Joseph Campbell (Occidental Mythology—The Masks of God, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, The Flight of the Wild Gander) to inject a sense of mythology and philosophy which deepened and enriched what could otherwise have been just another sci-fi schlocker. Star Wars fished from the shared pool of mythic archetypes including the idealistic, identifiable youth thrust into an adventure—Luke Skywalker née Starkiller, the swashbuckling scoundrel—Han, the damsel in distress—Leia, the wise old man—Ben, and the (arguably) comedic characters—R2 and Threepio. Later, Campbell was even brought in to check George’s work, and was quoted as saying, the best student he ever had was Lucas. George maintains most of the success of Star Wars stemmed from the sound psychological underpinning, and that people always react the same way to these stories, and likely always will.
I was mysteriously denied the joys of Star Wars as a boy—it somehow evaded me entirely. My village was a barren wasteland in terms of the ways of The Force. None of my mates—not even the slightly older kids or their big brothers had video copies, and being born in ’82—sandwiched between Empire and Jedi, by the time I reached the perfect age to actually be interested in the film and its sequels, it had sadly vanished from my sight and my grasp. I can only assume that the UK television rights were revoked in order to build expectations, and replenish a public desire to see the movies again in their upcoming remastered incarnations—or basterdisations. Therefore, I have a peculiar relationship with the original trilogy. They were films that were always out of reach, and when I finally did experience them, I was once again denied the original editions. Instead, they were all tainted with nineties CGI; reduced to reimaginings and suffered from retroactive tinkering that ultimately damaged them.
I did eventually see Star Wars at the pictures on its 1997 rerelease, aged 14, with my entire family in tow due to a massive Special Edition publicity push. Regrettably, it had been digitally tweaked—presumably to tidy up and add a uniformity to the originals to help them fall in line and suit the imminent prequel trilogy. At my secondary school, we all ate our body weight in Walkers crisps to get hold of the Star Wars “Tazos,” or “Pogs” as we called them—once again proving my stupidity has no bounds as I’m still not sure what they were actually for, and yet scoffed bags of Salt & Vinegar French Fries to amass a collection of daft, ultimately worthless discs. The first time I experienced The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi was on the subsequent triple VHS Special Edition. I saw Greedo shoot first, and witnessed a sarlacc tongue—I didn’t have the pleasure of hearing the “Yub Nub” song until decades later, and instead sat through Evar Orbus and His Galactic Jizz-Wailers’ (I know) and their dreadful, digitally-altered vocalist, Sy Snootles’s rendition of “Jedi Rocks”—it just doesn’t bear thinking about. I was robbed. If the originals are true beauties, then the Special Editions and beyond are once attractive people, now disastrously made over with ill-judged and unnecessary plastic surgery. I still have vivid memories of Lucas explaining away his redundant alterations, like the bit in Empire where you can accidentally see the background matte shot through the solid exterior cage of the X-wing as it circles the AT-AT.
The film itself is iconic from the off—the booming, cacophonous, vintage Fox logo, the sweet sight of the old frog-green Lucasfilm title, the simple, fairy tale beauty of, “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…” that drum roll; that fanfare, and then the explosion of John Williams’ knockout score accompanying that instantly recognisable starlit yellow text crawl. George’s directorial decisions as far as coverage are pretty basic at times, and I do feel like he simplified many things on the day for the sake of just getting it done, which sometimes happily results in very clear, precise storytelling. Tatooine’s duel sun dreaminess, and the longings of Luke is an understated visual highlight, but plotwise there’s entirely too much dull, droid dialogue with Anthony Daniels’ intolerable C-3PO—a persnickety, gold robot, and R2-D2 fussing around and dawdling in the desert for far too long. By the time we reach Mos Eisley, though, the movie really starts to swing, and for 1977 anyway, the action is just about explosive and fast-paced enough.
There are caveats. It’s packed with crap comic relief—the main offender being Threepio—a bitchy, backstabbing, bitter, contrary character, whose every grating line is an infuriating self-pity party. The effects aren’t quite dialed in just yet—although I’m sure they were knockout in ’77. That never-ending, overhead Star Destroyer miniature must’ve felt like a cinematic crushing of the cranium, especially in theaters with those colorful laser blasts and rumbling sounds. Here, at least juxtaposed with Empire, a seriously lame meteor shower lets the side down, as do the dated dog fights albeit with wicked, screeching TIE fighters, and some of the cantina characters just look like extras with Hallowe’en masks on. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I spotted Greedo milling about moments after getting murdered—it may have been just another Rodian bloke that looked exactly like him, wearing literally all of his exact same clothes, but I doubt it. In addition, there is at least one seriously dodgy speeder shot where, as an easy fix, Vaseline was crudely smeared under the vehicle to make it appear as if it’s hovering.
We’re introduced to handsome smuggler, Han Solo and his copilot and walking carpet, “Chewie” the Wookiee, the regal, dignified Alec Guinness as Ben Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Hammer man Peter Cushing as the hilariously named Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin. During the trash compactor sequence, Han gets very handsy and a bit grabby with a wet and nipply Leia Organa. As George Lucas once famously told Carrie Fisher, “There’s no underwear in space.” It gets dark at times—not Empire dark, but “Her Highnessness” is at the very least threatened with a big needle, the poor wee Jawas get roasted alive, and Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru are also flame-grilled and turned into smoking skeletons by Imperial Stormtroopers. Luke’s references to the Death Star trench being “Just like Beggar’s Canyon back home,” and tales of “bull’s-eyeing womp rats in his T-16” inform us his whole life was preparing him for this moment. I can only imagine the riotous cheering in cinemas when the music swells, and Solo returns to Skywalker’s side in the Millennium Falcon to keep the TIE fighters off him so he can score his victorious shot and cripple the Imperial space station. Star Wars closes with a charming medal ceremony, beautifully-scored yet again by MVP, John Williams. It must be said, it’s my least favourite film of the trio—but all these years later, Star Wars still surrounds, penetrates, and binds us. Lucas, for all his flaws, was without doubt a visionary, and a true artist for seeing his work through, against all odds, and in the face of doubt from his closest filmmaking peers.
The bonus, end credits “Ruck Crew It Is” award goes to future Demme DP, Tak Fujimoto for his second unit photography. Also, please give it up for an unsung hero of the original trilogy, Ralph McQuarrie for his prescient concept art.
Concept art by Ralph McQuarrie
The Empire Strikes Back (1980)
As relayed in Kevin Smith’s Clerks, it’s the central, darkest chapter. “Empire had the better ending. I mean, Luke gets his hand cut off, finds out Vader’s his father, Han gets frozen and taken away by Boba Fett. It ends on such a down note. I mean, that’s what life is, a series of down endings.” Agree or disagree, it’s undoubtedly an ominous cliff-hanger, filled with trepidation and uncertainty. Lucas worked on his bulky story treatment for The Star Wars for about a year, so not wanting to excise any crucial material, he made the decision to produce approximately the first act of his entire piece. Star Wars is essentially just that—Empire and Jedi would cover the rest. The Empire screenplay was penned by “the Queen of Space Opera,” Leigh Brackett—although she died before it was made, and Lawrence Kasdan—writer of Raiders of the Lost Ark, and writer/director of Body Heat the following year. Amid the usual jargon, Empire has its moments—the heart and humour of the, “I love you/I know” exchange is absent in the other episodes, although the reverse callback in Jedi is quite sweet. Focussing on a tight-knit circle of friends, all looking out for one another to aid the grand cause of defeating the evil Empire.
With so much at stake here, Darth Vader retains tremendous presence—perhaps more than ever, as the Emperor is yet to steal his diabolical thunder. From a still propulsive and resonant story by George Lucas, veteran helmer, Irvin Kershner (Eyes of Laura Mars) was tapped to direct—neatly, once upon a time, Kershner taught one of the seminars Lucas attended at USC, and whilst critiquing his early shorts was struck by the originality of the young man’s vision. How apt that the teacher becomes the student—although, based upon the bounding leap forward that is The Empire Strikes Back, I’d argue Kersh could teach Lucas a thing or two about the craft of directing, as he tends to skillfully move the camera when required to employ an additional emotional punch. The horizontal, vertical, and diagonal screen wipe transitions open and close like cinematic curtains, and the stellar sound design and score help with the heavy lifting.
Empire features one of the two finest lightsaber duels in the trilogy—arguably the best in terms of staging, however I personally prefer the brute force slam downs and reversal of power at the climax of Jedi, with Luke downing Vader and getting some severed hand payback. The action scenes far outweigh the original, and although Return of the Jedi gets a really bad rap, Empire also plays like a toy advert at times, whether it wants to or not—admittedly not quite to the degree of Jedi, but it’s certainly noticeable with the AT-AT Imperial Walkers, droids, the wampa, the tauntauns, X-wings, Boba Fett‘s memorable ship, and even that oval, woodlouse-shaped craft the Rebels use, all flooding back in the form of plastic action figures, vehicles, and playsets.
These movies were released three years apart, in ’77, ’80, and ’83 respectively, which allowed for natural, physical growth—aiding the visual development of characters—Luke especially, by cleverly having him scratched up by the wampa to explain away the scarred face Mark Hamill had acquired in a serious car crash. The chemistry—and at this point, borderline incestual, ancient Greek love triangle of the Luke, Leia, and Han dynamic showcases some enjoyable, sizzling sexual tension between Ford and Fisher as the scruffy-lookin’ nerf herder, and Her Highness, Princess Leia, but it never extends beyond a quickly broken up snog, and instead manifests itself as sulking, or reprimanding a Wookiee. Leia has more to do in Empire, and does so with a sense of self and authority. There are myriad bounty hunters—the crocodilian chap with the yellow trousers, and more obviously, Boba Fett, who at this point, still holds the frame with all the mystique and coolness that made him so intriguing, and a firm fan favorite in the first place. There are bizarre cameos abound, with Admiral headteacher Bronson from Grange Hill, General Donovan from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, and Fawlty Towers’ General Waldorf salad popping up periodically throughout.
There’s something to be said for separating the droids from the others. The clunky levity is diluted, their screen time is reduced—as is the tedium of the back-and-forth cross-cutting of the original. For me, this alone elevates Empire over Star Wars, as I truly appreciate the fact that the intolerable C-3PO is treated horribly throughout—he’s ignored, abused, maligned, pushed to one side, threatened verbally, met with sarcasm, completely dismissed, switched off, left silent and limp in a chair, dissed by Lando and fellow droids alike, and then gets carted around on Chewbacca’s back before being shot to bits and chucked onto a junk pile—where Star Wars‘ silly comic relief characters typically belong. It’s the closest he comes to death, and unfortunately it’s not quite close enough. We will sadly have to endure him for one more picture.
The original cockeyed Emperor looks rubbish, and has no gravitas or continuity with Jedi, so for once is an alteration that I can completely understand Lucas making. Generally speaking, if you can find the unaltered versions, you’ll probably notice that George Lucas has unintentionally made the modest eighties opticals seem both charming and welcome. A few hokey explosion plumes here and there are to be expected, and embraced at this point. The stop motion is a relief to see after the frankly mad and arbitrary additions made to the 1997 versions. Now, the rubbish severing of the wampa’s arm is acceptable, as is the jittery tauntaun keeling over. There are exceptions, however, as in three or four instances, the proximity and perspectives—like the quickness of the AT-AT approaching Luke—allegedly about to crush him, doesn’t quite work, but this may be due more to second unit, or effects department limitations rather than Kershner’s staging.
Shout-out to Phil Tippett’s animation, Norman Reynolds’ key production design, and another unsung hero, Ben Burtt, for his inventive and fascinating foley and sound design. As the kids say, “The Imperial March” cue is a banger. Another John Williams, MVP moment is when Luke’s X-wing starfighter is levitated from a Dagobah swamp by Yoda. I could’ve easily lived my whole life without witnessing a CGI Yoda brandish a lightsaber and do a backflip. To me, Empire beautifully carves out the entirety of Yoda’s arc—technically Jedi is the completion, with him taking his eternal nap and all, but here, Muppet-maestro, Sesame Street stalwart, and The Dark Crystal and Little Shop of Horrors honcho, Frank Oz performs as Yoda so satisfyingly, switching from a giggly, slapstick, rubber-faced sausage thief, to an all-knowing Jedi Master at the drop of Luke’s torch. The wee green fella goes from whacking R2 with his walking stick to dropping profundities—so much so, I believe somewhere within the Dagobah sequence lies the meaning of life.
Obviously, there’s Yoda’s sharp and forever quotable, “Do, or do not. There is no try,” but also, the ordeal of the hero and the inmost cave, as Joseph Campbell refers to them, each clearly unfurl here. A mystical energy known as “The Force,” represents the spiritual—the interconnection of all things. The power of meditation, tuning in, and tapping into that elusive concept—even as a heathen unbeliever like myself, is painted as possible. Anyone can understand and relate to the fact that once we start down a dark path, forever can it dominate our destiny. The simplistic credo of not giving in to hate is a powerful and everlasting message, and one I think we need to hear and be reminded of repeatedly. Defeating self-doubt, overcoming inner demons and our greatest fears, facing our past, unlearning what we have learned, responsibly claiming our destiny, embracing our shadow selves and accepting what we are capable of and may potentially become, so that we are fully prepared, and can knowledgeably fight against it—all the while excepting the possibility of it occurring should we stray too far from our purest path. The loaded image of Luke in the Vader mask, cracked open like a bad egg, is so symbiotically strong. It is in these scenes that the message, potency, power, and heart of Star Wars lies. They somehow play vague and earnest without coming off as preachy. If we don’t believe in something, we will fail. The broad applicability of this sentiment encourages us to transcend our potentially dark destinies. These are life lessons I’m forever relearning, and still attempt to abide by—and with every rewatch of the saga—this episode in particular, I’m reminded to strive to be a stronger, more enlightened individual.
Return of the Jedi (1983)
“All Jedi had was a bunch of Muppets,” Dante Hicks bemoaned. Perhaps, but who doesn’t like The Muppet Show? Besides, the puppets are tangible, and very welcome compared to anything these jokers knocked up on a computer a few years later. I never understood why geeks griped about the cuteness of Ewoks when the original movie’s Jawas were also dinky and adorable in their own peculiar way—and actually pretty similar in both their vocalisations and behavior. Moreover, lest we forget, these cuddly critters were fully prepared to roast Han on that spit, and cook up a pot of Solo gumbo. There is something daft about an entire Empire brought to its knees by small, furry creatures armed with sticks and stones, but there’s also something satisfying from a storytelling perspective about placing an object or duty so vitally important in the hands of an ostensibly insignificant someone such as an R2-D2, a Wicket the Ewok, or a (forgive me for mixing trilogies here) Frodo Baggins, who, in spite of their humble statuses were entrusted, and had the potential to, against all odds, undo evils and positively alter the course of events—to allow good to triumph over seemingly insurmountable wickedness.
My only fleeting recollection of seeing any of the Star Wars films on telly as a kid was one afternoon when the Stormtrooper speeder bike pursuit—hurtling through the trees on the forest moon of Endor from Return of the Jedi played out. I must’ve been busy with something or other as I just glanced at the telly momentarily whilst dashing through my living room, but when Star Wars fever resurfaced in ’97 and I received the video trilogy boxed set for Crimbo, Jedi was the first film I impatiently pushed into our VHS player. The opening alone might just tip it into the best of the bunch, with the entire gang uniting to spring Han from his frozen carbonite prison. From Jabba’s gross gathering with the funky Max Rebo band kicking out the jams, Jabba bopping about dancing, to the green slave girl getting gobbled up in the scary lair of the rancor, to the sacrificial pit of the sarlacc, and the objectification of a skinny Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia, flashing some side bum flesh in that cheeky gold bikini, and single-handedly kickstarting innumerable male fantasies—to be fair, she actually has a lot of autonomy and plenty to do in this episode.
It’s some of the finest, and slickest action the trilogy has to offer, with what is essentially a toothy anus taking responsibility for the shittiest death of perhaps the coolest character when it comes to Boba Fett—he’s dead in my book. It’s the only film of the three that features our entire band of heroes, Lando is a good guy and actually acts unselfishly, Admiral “It’s a trap!” Ackbar does his thing, the female genitalia-faced chuckler, Nien Nunb has a laugh or three, and it’s the sole picture that showcases the Emperor in his final, menacing, cackling, pantomime villain form. There are new characters galore! The slobbering, green pig guards that everybody’s friend had as a toy but no one remembered actually buying themselves, the creepy, theatrical, Merrick-headed, “De wanna wanga. I will tak-oo to Jabba now” crony, Bib Fortuna—who my ol’ mate Dave Smith always misquoted as “Jabba wanker,” and now I can’t unhear it, the Capricorny, three-eyed goat head dude, that freaky, fat frog-dog barking at the door, the vile gangster, Jabba the Hutt smoking that green hookah shit—I think we all know what that’s supposed to be, and his dug-in, parasitic, rodenty, Fraggle Rock-alike, Salacious Crumb finding everything hilarious until he gets zapped. As a side note, if you keep your eyes peeled, the fella taking Han away looks a bit like Rick James.
I didn’t have many Star Wars figures, and as most of the ones I did own came into my possession via car boot sales, some were in less than tip-top shape. I recall reaching down and picking up what I thought was my Darth Vader’s missing leg, but it was in fact a big black slug. I believe I inexplicably had the action figure of the fat, tearful, rancor wrangler. What a strange, emotive inclusion to see a vilified creature treated as a pet. There’s another heartfelt moment akin to this later in Jedi where an Ewok discovers its mate has perished and doesn’t leave its side—it just mourns. Back to the rancor scene, and scaling issues aside—especially the hokey Twiglet in gob, rear projection shot, Harmy’s version is the best I’ve ever seen it. Yes, it’s still very obviously a miniature, but it plays far better than my 1997 VHS ever did.
The direction by Richard Marquand (Jagged Edge) is zesty and taut, with clever cross-cutting between Vader, Luke, and the Emperor, and the unfolding events on Endor with the deflector shield drama. In terms of strong imagery, there’s the touching unveiling of Vader, and one of my faves, the crackling, fizzing collision of red and green lightsabers right before the giddy, excited eyes of the Emperor. On a lighter note, the now famously applicable GIF of Han processing the information that Luke and Leia are in fact twins raised a belly laugh. Peculiarly, Return of the Jedi—formerly, for a while at least, Revenge of the Jedi, features Darth Vader’s most impressive introduction. Perhaps his myth had built to such a degree that any old intro wouldn’t cut it. The only way the Vader heel–face turn works at the climax of the picture is if they introduce a baddie beyond all measure, and that’s where the legitimately scary—particularly as a youngling, wrinkly, electric Emperor comes in. This closing chapter satisfyingly completes established arcs. Here, Vader’s good guy twist is complete—and to make it all that more commendable, it’s entirely in Jedi as Vader is still pure evil at the beginning of the film.
There are more gigantic, elaborate sets, and the costumes and art direction have improved beyond measure. The spacecraft, and detail of the miniatures is far superior, although several effects shots are directly replicated from earlier entries—the tractor beam pulling Vader’s ship into the Death Star, the colossal Star Destroyer passing overhead, also Luke and Leia’s Tarzan swing from the first film is echoed. As with many sequels, notably Evil Dead II, and Terminator 2: Judgment Day, it’s a lot of the same stuff, but done better. I mean, the entire Death Star II plot, which may spell certain doom for the small band of Rebels struggling to restore freedom to the galaxy? Again? All that aside, the intergalactic dogfights are fantastic, and by far the strongest of the three movies. The key to Jedi is the humanity of its drama. We’ve seen the Rebel Alliance blow up a Death Star before—admittedly the effects are a heap better six years later, but what really makes a difference is the Vader/Luke father/son story, and the redemptive arc of Star Wars‘ arch villain.
A tight screenplay by Lawrence Kasdan and George Lucas lays out a clear plot after the initial attention-grabbing, action set pieces. Luke’s promised return to the Dagobah System, the completion of his training resting upon his inevitable confrontation with Vader, Yoda’s death, and the vital, expositional conversation with Obi-Wan regarding Anakin Skywalker, all set the ball rolling nicely, and economically. The chips are on the table, the chess pieces are all in place, and it’s time to just let the inevitable unfold. Everything’s a bit slicker. We all know the universe at this point. The audience knows who’s who, they know what’s at stake, and it’s just two hours and eleven minutes of watching that happen in a satisfying and fun way. If you don’t roll a tear at the end when Anakin (Sebastian Shaw underlined) returns as a kindly Force ghost alongside Yoda and Ben, and have a little “Yub Nub” singsong in Ewokese during the celebrations, then your heart is truly dead. “Luka-luka-lookah, luka-luka-lookah!” Bonus end credits “Ruck Crew It Is” awards go to both assistant cameraman, David Fincher, and also effects cameraman and PTA cinematographer to be, Robert Elswitt.
Beaming a massive cheers to Petr “Harmy” Harmáček and his 2011 “Despecialized Edition” project for eliminating naughty George’s retroactive tinkering, allowing me to recreate the initial seventies and eighties theatrical experiences as best as I could from the comfort of home, in a high enough quality to recognize and appreciate the dazzling visual and sonic effects of the original versions, and bask in what I can only describe as their warm analogue effects, as opposed to the steely coldness of nineties CGI. With that, I wish you a very happy annual Star Wars Day, and May the 4th be with you, always.
Michele Soavi—Argento protégé, Fulci collaborator, and director of Cemetery Man, clearly enjoyed himself orchestrating 1987’s Aquarius, aka Deliria, aka Bloody Bird, aka Stage Fright—a diverting, self-aware prance about, packed with dressing room dread and backstage blood.
A soundstage massacre ensues when absconded criminal nutbar, Irving Wallace skedaddles from his cuckoo’s nest, inhabits the persona of a demented murderer, and infiltrates an already tense rehearsal of a play about the Night Owl—a knife, chainsaw, workshop tool, pickaxe-wielding serial killer, who preposterously carts around an enormous, cumbersome owl-head, balancing it precariously on his noggin, yet somehow manages to retain a keen peripheral vision, whilst staging his own theatrical corpse gallery—replete with softly falling feathers, fake snow, and an added musical medley for full dramatic effect.
The terror-stricken cast and crew must negotiate elevated walkways, crank levers and pulleys hidden amongst the backdrops and shadows of the theatre, and shine spotlights down from the reverberating rafters, which all render the set-pieces pretty effective, and milk the somewhat novel milieu as a fairly original slasher film setting, especially once the phone lines get cut, the power is shut off, and our disparate band of survivors are locked in like SPAM® in a can—all the while, a torrential downpour tumbles down outside. I was amused every time Soavi cut away to the rubbish lookout cops—supposedly on guard, but they were mostly just eating spinach, I think. Still, the night blows rainy, and the nocturnal suspense builds.
It all makes for a fun, escapist, camp as you like ‘80s stalk and slash. Soavi’s impressive staging, blocking, and commanding use of camera all add an urgency to the proceedings. The art design, cinematography, and cutting successfully mesh, are quite immersive—and as silly as the movie gets, it doesn’t compromise on the obligatory, grisly killin’s. A particularly nasty drill-kill gives way to a clever moment where real claret drips onto fake blood as the film’s lines blur between reality and theatricality. Another inventive, Scream 2-esque moment struck me, in which the play’s reels of audio are set running by the wannabe bird-of-prey, resulting in a cacophonous quest to find the loon with the disorienting diegetic score blaring.
In every sense, 1999 was a year of profound horror. I was sixteen going on seventeen, and careering towards my final year of secondary school. The queasy terror of receiving distinctly average GCSE results—though thankfully they were good enough to nudge me into a technical college, accompanied by a total brainlock in terms of what the hell I was going to do with my life had left me in a paralysed, passive state. Amid these real life fears, myself and my best friend, Sam—who I would collaborate with the following year on our first student short—the dodgy but gratifying slasher-horror, Night Class—took in Tobe Hooper’s notorious, fabled-turned newly available uncut edition of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre together, and chilled ourselves witless at Teeside Park’s Showcase Cinema, witnessing the goose-pimple inducing, found footage frights of The Blair Witch Project. Earlier that year, bristling with anticipation, I would also subject my teenage self—alone this time, to what was labelled, “the scariest film ever made.” Newly liberated from the clutches of BBFC good taste overlord James Ferman after an 11-year absence on VHS, and unleashed upon the British public, was William Friedkin’s The Exorcist.
It was the week commencing April 26th, 1999. On a North Yorkshire cul-de-sac—scarcely resembling the affluent Prospect Street of the movie, though we did have kindred lampposts—my childhood back bedroom was the scene of the scares, and a modest, portable TV-VCR combi the instrument of torment, containing an 18 certificate (better late than never, BBFC) rental copy, fresh from Choices—my preferred video shop at the top of Richmond market place, courtesy of my kind and obliging mum. I was shaken; frozen; unable to move or pause the tape—spellbound by the ghosts in the machine. The next day, my mate, Rob—who also courageously caught the film that week upon re-release, tentatively asked, “Are you alright?”—and we never cross-examined each other like that. Evidently, I had checked out, and was gazing blankly through the window of one of Richmond’s disembodied classroom huts with a vacant expression, and had to confess—I couldn’t stop thinking about The Exorcist. This was the first—and to that disturbing degree, the last time I have been truly unsettled by a motion picture.
Each of us must confront and come to terms with what we believe, and what we don’t. As someone raised as religiously as you can be raised when you’re unwittingly Christened, but not bread and wine communion “confirmed,” then merely nudged in the general direction of the casual Church of England—but find yourself believing more in the divinity of the Jelly Tots skewering the orange, rather than the Christingle message itself, I’m no exception. When I first took in the film, I didn’t know what I accepted in terms of religion, which made its gritty impact so much more forceful and intense. I would certainly be less susceptible to the theological might of The Exorcist as a 40-year-old, ardent atheist—a label I wouldn’t fully commit to until perhaps 2004, than as the daydreaming, vaguely confused, ambivalent and apathetic 16-year-old agnostic of my teenage years. Yet twenty-three years later, I still feel the desire; a need, to dismantle the film that once petrified me, and perhaps conquer some horrific bygone hang-ups. Demythologising and dissecting the mechanics of a beloved movie is nine times out of ten a thickheaded undertaking, but I sensed it wouldn’t entirely obliterate my enjoyment of The Exorcist—a deeper knowledge and understanding could surely only ever enhance it. I’m keen to investigate the technical approach, deconstruct the story—via both William Peter Blatty’s book, and the final film, and in doing so examine its profoundly distressing effects.
I pestered my parents about their first experiences with The Exorcist, as the furore and phenomena surrounding its 1973 unveiling was firmly in their era. My mum—just nineteen at the time, vividly recalls one audience member being sick during her Darlington Odeon screening, and another fainting. She couldn’t believe how frightening the film was, and admitted to watching some scenes through open fingers. Apparently, lots of filmgoers upped and left the showing, but alongside her college friends, she bravely remained until the end—the disturbing memories staying with her for a long time after. It still ranks as probably the scariest thing she’s ever seen. My Methodist dad took in The Exorcist shortly after its UK theatrical launch, accompanied by his best friend, Arthur, in either a Whitley Bay or Newcastle picture-house. By his account, it was scarier than the usual X-rated horrors of the ’60s and early ’70s, and was very uncomfortable to watch. Dad revealed, if he hadn’t been at the wall end of a row, he may have got out—noting the film conjured a real sense of evil that was chilling to experience. My sister—seven years my junior remembers not being able to watch it all the way through for a very long time, but also confessed she found the built-up idea of The Exorcist worse than the experience of finally seeing it.
These parental reports check out, as this collective psychosis of sorts did spread. Remarkably, members of the general public had indeed suffered from bouts of hysteria, and reports of patrons passing out and vomiting weren’t uncommon, and would later became inseparable from screenings worldwide. Although there were undoubtedly some moviegoers playing up to the TV cameras in the staked-out lobbies of cinemas—lurching into the light of the lobby in the first thirty minutes, and refusing to return, which I always found feigned. As mournful and foreboding as it is, these deserters would be hard-pressed to suggest the Iraq prologue made them puke or keel over. Besides, literally nothing even remotely freaky occurs until Regan’s bed starts shaking. Perhaps it was all in their prayerful heads. Other reports suggested audiences weren’t succumbing to spinning heads, garden hose spew, or crucifixes plunged into preteen nether regions—it wasn’t the Demon, or the Devil himself—filmgoers were more likely conking out due to Regan’s ultra-realistic, crimson-spurting arteriogram procedure, as opposed to sacreligious outrage. That’s a true testament to, and fixed merit of The Exorcist; even godless unbelievers such as myself struggle with the fact we’re witnessing the plight of a blameless little lass, and we’re well aware that every single one of these invasive medical tests by smug, know-it-all doctors are for naught. Moreover, holy attitudes aside, each self-inflicted crucifix gash, and holy water flesh-tear—licking bloody, gaping wounds across Regan’s legs, actually slashes her body, and a belief in a supreme being or not—at the risk of chanelling At the Movies dope, Gene Siskel, and adopting his familiar pet peeve—a child in peril is affecting to the degree that anyone can feel emotionally manipulated, and it’s often pretty tough to endure in a picture.
The movie was flagged as, “a genuine threat to mental health,” and the US ratings board forewarned, “The Exorcist may well be the most dangerous motion picture ever made in relation to its potential threat to the emotional health of preteens, teenagers, and some adults as well.” Labelled on its release as, “a sociological phenomena, which gives credibility to the devil myth, and the power of exorcism and ritual,” the movie was sold on this controversy for the sake of cheap yet potent, word of mouth PR—using every brazen trick in the book, from an incendiary death curse, to hackneyed tabloid slogans galore, e.g. “not for the week of stomach or faint-hearted.” Pregnant women were urged not to attend shows, and paramedics in ambulances hung around outside theaters just in case. Many of these studio-orchestrated puking or passing out capers were later whistle-blown by Linda Blair herself, who confessed she was told by an executive about the phony, public relations ruses. Another certainly non-fateful coincidence was that 666 Fifth Avenue in NYC was the post-production office hosting the Moviola editing, and marked the location in which the picture’s devout Catholic writer/producer, William Peter Blatty first witnessed the finished assembly.
The picture seemingly had everything necessary to provoke a public reaction—even a swiftly-pulled, potentially seizure-inducing black and white teaser trailer. As would follow suit with The Omen, Poltergeist, The Crow, and Twilight Zone: The Movie, The Exorcist was exploitatively branded a “cursed” production, with Beelzebub allegedly striking out against the cast and crew for revealing his trickster duplicity on a Hollywood scale. Every set burned to the ground except Regan’s bedroom, which was mysteriously unaffected, there were several actor and set-related deaths—most notably Jack MacGowran, who played the foul-mouthed English filmmaker-turned twisty-necked drunkard, Burke Dennings. Nowadays we know it’s all claptrap, as many involved have conceded, a fifteen-month shoot will span the same time in which people related directly and indirectly to the production will sadly perish. Ever the snake oil salesman, Friedkin had even requested for the set to be exorcised—but again, this is Billy the businessman—the shameless publicist within. In addition, creepily contributing to the the muddy myth of actual wickedness lurking in the celluloid, a young, bearded chief neuroradiology technologist and real-life serial murderer, Paul Bateson—catalyst for Friedkin’s 1980 homosexual crime thriller, Cruising, bizarrely pops up during one of Regan’s hospital scenes.
Rated X without cuts, The Exorcist triumphantly haunted the UK’s late-night cinemas, pulling in gargantuan box office returns, and was released unmolested and uncertificated to the masses by Warner Home Video in 1981. Then, quite contradictorily, in early ’88—after being previously available to rent or purchase in England for some seven years, The Exorcist was hastily pulled; withdrawn from UK shelves; yanked from the paws of wholesome younglings, deranged yobbos, and everyday fans of cinema alike, and fell into the cupped hands of uptight censor, James Ferman—amid pressure group campaigners, the National Viewers’ and Listeners’ Association’s reactionary, and at times arbitrary “video nasty” ban—a term coined by do-gooder square and uber-dragon “Karen” of ’80s Britain, Mary Whitehouse, in a futile attempt to mollycoddle a predominantly sensible nation.
The powers that be feared The Exorcist had potential to cause severe emotional problems for any crackpots actually believing in demonic possession, and also remained troubled by the fact that its 12-year-old protagonist, Regan would render the picture more appealing to little devils, who could simply pop their parents’ VHS copy into a VCR—as they no doubt had been doing for years—and bend their brittle minds beyond repair. This overbearing concern—as domineering as it may seem, does ring true, as throughout my youth there were scattered, whispered rumours of circulating pirate copies, and—perhaps not as apocryphal as once thought—tales of, “Oh, my dad; grandad; uncle; brother; next-door neighbour, has The Exorcist on video.” In our somewhat cynical circle this claim would have been customarily met with, “Does he fuck as like, it’s banned!” Or words to that effect. It would now, however, seem to be verifiable—likely one of the straggling 1981-1988 copies that snuck out and were readily available to buy at that time. This availability fiasco, of course, only added to the legend—the inaccessibility and accompanying frustration fuelled a morbid curiosity, and a forbidden interest from debased—or perhaps just intrigued, adolescent Brits, who would inevitably seek out banned material at any cost to catch a glimpse of what the domineering nanny state deemed worthy of shielding from our unworthy sight.
In terms of the whole UK video certificate refusal debacle, cheers to the BBFC for the transparency of information—but not for their half-witted, asinine Bogarting of one of the most artful, masterfully made movies of all time. Unlike prosecuted “nasties,” such as the still presently problematic, 1978 rape-revenge exploitationer, I Spit on Your Grave, which had 1 minute and 41 seconds clipped out for even its latest 2020 Blu-ray release, and non-prosecuted, but nevertheless infamous—with court hearings and chat show debates abound, Sam Raimi’s undead splatterfest, The Evil Dead—a movie that curiously wouldn’t see the light of day in its uncut form until 2001. The Exorcist, however, was never taken to (literal) trial, nor indicted for any obscenity law breaches, and in spite of its indisputably lewd and blasphemous content, Friedkin’s film wasn’t judged to violate any child indecency image guidelines. It seems to have been the weighty accolades and overall acclaim—Oscar nods, and a keen public demand, that ultimately protected The Exorcist.
In the nineties, Sky TV made moves to show the film, but they were once again nixed by Ferman, who found it peculiar and contradictory that although the film was withdrawn on video, it would still puzzlingly play unmolested for subscribers on BSkyB’s satellite telly. Following several attempts in vain to unleash The Exorcist on VHS, a gigantic leap forward occurred in 1998 when Camden London Borough Council allowed The Exorcist to be shown publicly. This tide-turning screening twisted the BBFC’s arm in terms of reassessing the picture’s content, and subsequently prompted them to rerelease it, wholly intact on tape—newly adorned with an elusive, blood red 18 certificate. Later in ’98, the film was re-released in cinemas to commemorate its 25th anniversary, which handily served as somewhat of a dummy run as the public failed to replicate the insanity and delirium of the ’70s run. The picture, heralded by Kommandant Ferman’s retirement and his BBFC replacement—former Sky guy, Robin Duval’s entrance in 1999, was thought to no longer have the same level of impact, and was granted general release once again.
A similar matter of censorship-lifting emerged the same year, with The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, which was outlawed outright in Blighty since its earliest London screenings back in ’75. The title didn’t help Hooper as the word, “chain saw” had been banned unreservedly from titles at the time. As with The Exorcist, Texas Chain Saw was later let out on video in 1981, with the ensuing Video Recordings Act of 1984 meaning it was likewise shelved. However, in ’98 and ’99, during more open-minded times—the very same time as Friedkin’s feature began to sever its own straps, Chain Saw was also shown in liberal, arty Camden as a pristine new print, and was soon passed uncut—once again, as an 18 for cinemas in March of ’99, and then untethered on VHS and DVD. Signifying a real sea change in UK film censorship, and exhibiting unequivocal evidence of a demand for such controversial pictures in Britain, Texas Chain Saw would even hit terrestrial telly for all to see in the year 2000.
Since gearing up for Hallowe’en 2018—my first ever All Hallows’ Evenings HorrOctober, screening 31 scary movies at home here in South Korea—I have exclusively favoured Dr. Sapirstein’s 40th Anniversary Preservation of The Exorcist. Bear with me—cinema snob mode: on. This “fan edit” was painstakingly remastered from diverse elements including official Blu-rays, DVDs, the CD release of the Japanese soundtrack, and cribbed from exhaustive, original visual and audio sources including earlier DVD, VHS and telly recordings, the Japanese LaserDisc, official 8mm digest, bits and bobs from a damaged 1973 35mm print, various photos, and 35mm slides—all to thoughtfully reflect, and diligently recreate the true power of those primary theatrical experiences.
Though it’s arguably imperceptible—a somewhat subconscious occurrence, and you may not necessarily realise something’s off—if you’re hearing anything other than the original, Oscar-winning mono sound mix, you’re missing out, as its distinct sonic resonance is so heavy and intense. The gurgling, and prickly distortion—especially under headphones in a pitch black room, is legitimately horrifying. Likewise, if you’re watching any version currently available to stream—or even the immaculately tidied and transferred Blu-ray disc, your eyeballs may be getting a treat in terms of the spick-and-span scan, but you’re in the presence of an imposter. The Exorcist was revised, and reissued in 1979 as a blown-up 70mm print, and it was this tinkered-with incarnation with a much brighter, vibrant image—debuting significant alterations to the dominant, sickly green tint of Owen Roizman’s muted, visually dark cinematography in terms of both the saturation and contrast, and Friedkin’s gloomier theatrical release colour timing—yet still became Warner Bros.’ inferior, go-to master for all successive releases, and unarguably, in my eyes, an inaccurate misrepresentation—even bastardisation, of the 1973 print.
The same applies to the “depecialised” fan versions of the original Star Wars trilogy—mournfully, it’s the only legit option for those amongst us who care deeply about true restoration, conservation, and seeing the pictures of the past not just as clearly as humanly possible, but also precisely as they first appeared to audiences upon their initial release. As with Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi, there are standard definition DVDs available—albeit in the original trilogy’s case ported over poorly from the LaserDisc release, the original version of The Exorcist can be purchased in its 1997 US DVD form, as well as its UK counterpart, and the theatrical is, at a glance, retained fully on the latest Blu-ray alongside the extended, but as previously mentioned, the color timing and sound mix are long gone in favour of a more naturalistic, subtle blue tinge, and a freshly mixed, Dolby 5.1 soundtrack. Over the years, I have seen The Exorcist in its prime, theatrical cut on VHS, and the DVD release of the same cut, followed by the DVD of *sigh* “The Version You’ve Never Seen,” which had brand new extras, and excitingly showcased the reintegrated spider-walk sequence. Finally, in spite of the thoughtful package—including both theatrical and extended version discs, I was still let down by the Blu-ray, as I flat-out rejected the imbecilic, spliced-in, “subliminal” CG phizogs. Nonetheless, when researching The Exorcist, I wanted to watch it on my big smart telly in the highest possible resolution, so I popped on the current, most popular pin sharp Blu again for the majority of my research, as it’s the cleanest and clearest the film has ever looked.
We have John Calley—head of production at Warner Bros. to thank for coaxing Friedkin to cut Blatty’s soft, Casablanca-copping coda. Lt. Kinderman and Father Dyer don’t know each other from Adam; it has little to no clout due to this, and is purely incidental business to pad the hellish, harrowing fall of the film. The Exorcist is a gut-punch that can’t be pulled, and this dreary denouement is in drastic danger of undermining the knockout blow administered mere moments earlier. Richard Roeper, after quite rightfully praising the“wonderful Burstyn,” and “masterful pacing,” blurted out, “What’s the problem? We’re getting out of our seats—the movie’s over. It was hard-hitting enough.” I wholeheartedly disagree—and to me, it’s such a callous comment reflecting a shallow attitude to cinematic delivery and structure—a truly great film should retain its importance until the final frame. Don’t excuse a film for fucking itself up right at the very end—that constitutes a cardinal cinema sin in my book. I’m thrilled to say—because I so rarely get to wax his car, that I’m 100% in Roger Ebert’s critical camp here, as his impassioned retort made it crystal clear that he also found the “mood-destroying” new footage entirely dispensable, and bit back twice as hard, equating its inane dialogue to a comedian who has forgotten the punchline of his joke. “The movie is over! What are they blathering about?” Ebert knew Friedkin was over the moon with The Exorcist for all those years, refusing to preen, clip or even consider altering a single frame, and it’s rerelease is evidently nothing more than a marketing ploy flip-flop—like a badgered politician under pressure, Billy regrettably yielded, and slashed his Louvre-worthy canvas.
In another senseless proposal that just goes to show even genius is temporary, Friedkin pitched to Warner Bros. to reshoot one single closing image, and rerelease The Exorcist—at the time in the seventies, the most successful movie ever made—by splicing in a new, final shot—some bloke, who may or may not be Karras, ascending the steps below Regan’s window is witnessed by Father Dyer, who smiles slightly. Sometimes classics are made in spite of dopey ideas that almost came to fruition. Besides, as Roger Corman once eloquently stated, “When the monster is dead, the movie is officially over.” By my rationale, when you obliterate box office records, are nominated for—or win an Oscar, the film is definitely over. The self-sabotaging egos of Lucas, Friedkin, and regretfully, to a degree, Spielberg with his Extra-Terrestrial handgun-walkie-talkie kerfuffle. Leave the films be, you lot. You’re sore winners. Quit while you’re ahead. Besides, the film doesn’t belong to you anymore—it’s ours. In fact, I’ll go one step beyond and argue the case that any movie made unavailable in its original form by its creators should be stripped of any Oscars, other major awards, and the acclaim it initially garnered. Mess with the filmmakers’ prizes—that’s all they understand. If this threat was issued to Friedkin, there’s not a chance in the pit of Hades he’d alter his baby in such a way. As he once said, it’s the digital discs and streaming files that will last forever. Prints won’t survive—they’ll turn to dust, so it’s an absolute travesty that The Exorcist has not been retained in its original manifestation. What we are consuming today is unfortunately worlds apart from what was first released. A preservation and research tool has been eradicated. It’s not the way it was, and it should absolutely be recreated—precisely as it was shown in cinemas. We have been robbed of the genuine, first edition of The Exorcist—and I want it back.
Just like a demonic effigy—forgotten in ancient dust, some relics should never be excavated. Without wanting to lay the blame for the existence of the new edition solely at the feet of us Brits, the fact of the matter is the marketing potential in the UK—as the BBFC video ban was lifted, illustrated there was room to manoeuvre financially, and lest we forget the whole devilish ball only started rolling after Kermode’s Fear of God film exhumed not only the age old dual between Merrin and Pazuzu, but also Friedkin and Blatty. The unearthed work print of The Exorcist held twelve extra minutes. From ’74-2000, Friedkin stood proudly behind his unimpeachable theatrical—and rightly so. The moronically monikered, “Version You’ve Never Seen” is not a director’s cut—it’s more a writer/producer effort, as although it is Friedkin’s extended assembly, he allegedly rereleased it solely for William Peter Blatty as a personal favour, following years of ungrateful pressure and badgering—although something about that gesture doesn’t quite compute. I find it hard to believe Friedkin would cave, and compromise what he proclaimed to be his finest work, and, “as close to a perfect film as you can get.” I’d assume taking advantage of an ego-boosting rerelease with a substantial cash value was the main motivator, sending bighead Friedkin’s name high up the filmmaking flagpole once again—raking in more dosh, and reestablishing the film as the scariest ever made.
Is it a case of don’t go diggin’? Don’t go dredging up so-called superior versions of the movie that have been lost? If you want to discuss gifts from the heavens—it’s unclear if Friedkin ever believed in a traditional deity, but he does, however, believe in a “movie God,” a divine overseer that sends actors, orchestrates circumstances, script ideas, and imagery—as Friedkin himself often cites in reference to the happenstance, good fortune—don’t mention the curse, and sheer luck of The Exorcist‘s entire production. The movie Gods gave us the Oscar-winning theatrical cut of The Exorcist; the version we have seen, and likely love. Look no further. To ask for more is truly movie blasphemy, and for the filmmakers themselves to want more money and publicity, is an act of disgraceful self-service, and a big green loogie in the face of devout fans everywhere. A mighty ten Oscar noms resulted in a mere two trophies for Robert Knudson and Christopher Newman’s Best Sound Mixing, and Best Adapted Screenplay—Blatty’s own, which is a laugh as the misery-guts author later did everything in his diminutive power to butcher that treasured, acclaimed version. Again, if only the Academy had threatened to retract his Oscar if he tampered with the film any further, we could have satisfyingly watched Blatty wind his neck in. Also, as the film’s so-called biggest fan, and author of the authoritative companion piece to the picture, Mark Kermode should’ve known better than to snoop and interfere—as should Blatty, who should, above all else, be thanking his lucky stars for Friedkin’s vision and crafty adaptation of his preachy base material, instead of piling on guilt, and wearing the poor fella down over all those years to ultimately encumber the film with his God-fearing, all’s well that ends well, crippling conclusion. Christ, even Roger Ebert knew better. Most of us don’t wish to be told; to be dictated to. We much prefer to let our own lives colour our moviegoing experiences, and opt to make up our own minds—to decide and decipher on our own terms.
Right from the recut outset these ungrateful bastards got my goat. I was immediately taken aback by the extended’s icy blue Warner Bros. logo and wondered for a moment if I was watching Joel Schumacher’s Batman & Robin. Then, compounding matters further, the claret text that follows—bleeding into the thematically-apt, “God is good, God is great” thump of the prologue, in which the first lines—the reverberating cries of “Allahu Akbar” resound, is compromised immediately with the first of many unwanted scenic insertions we needed like a hole in the head. In this inferior incarnation, the opening titles instead give way to an inane, panning street scene, and a spare statue shot of the Mother Mary. Fortunately, the restoration team couldn’t find certain lines of dialogue, and certain shots and scenes were only available in low quality, scratched-up, work print form—not the original 35mm negative, so fortuitously Friedkin couldn’t reinstate more nonsense that would’ve impaired his masterpiece further. Talk about offensive—I reckon the way this lot cheaply butchered The Exorcist is more vulgar than anything in the film, and guiltier than any “video nasty” in terms of obscenity charges. A tremendous amount of respect is sadly absent and drastically due. Friedkin, if he searched his feelings—in his heart of hearts, still knows this to be true, as evidenced in a wonderfully apt anecdote regarding the impressionist painter, Pierre Bonnard from a discussion between the man himself and Blatty, in which the French artist tinkers with his framed piece—now hanging in the Louvre, with a palette and brush before getting chucked out by baffled security guards and then promptly nicked. Perhaps it would be equally fitting for Friedkin to suffer the same fate. I personally go easier on Billy than say, George Lucas, for example—although the two are main offenders in this painfully prevalent issue.
On his audio commentary, recorded in 1998 for the 25th Anniversary Special Edition LaserDisc and DVD release of The Exorcist, Friedkin—ever the contrarian, blunders, “The temptation today would be to hide little demons in the darkness, but I try to have more restraint.” Then what does he do? He literally hides dumb, maddening Pazuzu digital fuckery in the darkness—and most insultingly, they’re over the exact scene in which he’s discussing the futility of such things. What a betrayal! He sold out his opus to make some extra pocket money with a double-dip cash-in, and to accommodate the unappreciative nagging of that bible-basher, Blatty. All those perfunctory visages lobbed in like clumsy exclamation marks, and yet Friedkin—who confessed he needed a “Manhattan” subtitle to help establish the fact Karras had travelled all the way from Washington to New York City to visit his ailing mother, and if redoing the picture, would certainly include one. Well, why didn’t you then, when you had the nerve to inflict “The Daft Version We Should Never Have Seen” upon us all? Instead of dicking about with silly, superfluous subliminals, put something in that actually improves the coherence of the film.
The filmmakers couldn’t remove the wires on the spider-walk stunt until the advent of digital technology, and as several other excess scenes were being reconstituted anyway—why not this fabled one too? Purely as an image, I love the alarming nature of the spider-walk, but it’s become legendary as perhaps the most famed deleted scene ever, and therefore was coveted, but denied us, lurking notoriously in the shadows. When reintegrated, it really does fuck with the rhythm—and as scary as the imagery is, it’s the perfect example of going too far—the line of effects-based logic, realism, and taste were all concurrently crossed. It errs on the edge of comedic, and for my money, along with the gimmicky rotating puppet head—which admittedly works fine in context, tips The Exorcist a little too close to laughable farce. In the full-length deleted scene, it’s not just the slightly too light on her feet, crab-like descent that bothers me—it’s also the protruding snake tongue as Regan snaps at Sharon’s ankles on all fours—it’s all a spider step too far. Friedkin and his effects team mistakenly state claptrap like, “It would be a piece of cake to achieve these effects today.” Bollocks—it would be a piece of shit. Thoughtful, seamless, mechanical, practical effects are inevitably abandoned today in favour of clownish CG, which will no doubt once again rear its ugly Pazuzu head and destroy all mystique, when David Gordon Green dredges up the peacefully at rest cadaver of The Exorcist, and no doubt bungles his direct sequel later in 2023.
Anyone still unconvinced, there’s an additional redundant, cheapo CGI snarl when the hypnotist is speaking to “the person inside Regan,” and that palpable, hate-filled gaze as she looks up sinisterly, has been crudely painted over—ruined by some jumped-up sub-George Lucas 1997 computer horseshit. I was so mad, I wanted to spit—for Linda Blair, who had her iconic, captivating performance vandalised, and for every kid, and first-time viewer who’s seeing this tainted version. It’s also an insult to Roisman’s considered photography. That was the alteration that really got to me—I felt like I was in that fucking stupid bar in Jabba’s palace, and it was the retouched Return of the Jedi all over again—some techie twat with a mouse and a half-baked idea was force-feeding me computer-rendered garbage. Friedkin is sharp enough to lament that the quality of visual storytelling has diminished over time, yet what does he do to combat this fact? He does the same shit he’s criticising. Dropping of standards? Total hypocrisy on Friedkin’s part. If the theatrical is like a freshly sharpened knife, then the long version has been dulled. If only Billy had stuck to his *ahem* guns. Ironically the flattery, and borderline sycophancy of Kermode’s—at this point quite tedious Exorcist fetish, led to the unearthing of these unnecessary elements, and ironically damaged his beloved film—perhaps beyond repair. Imagine being partly responsible for ruining your favourite film for generations who were yet to discover its cinematic beauty and deep psychological resonance.
Contrarily, in spite of loathing the novelty-driven “Version You’ve Never Seen,” I do go in for the added, admittedly seamless digital face morph on the possessed Karras—but for posterity alone, in the interest of retaining the earliest version in every sense, I’d still reject it outright, in favour of the clunky but entirely in-camera jump cut of the original. To me, authenticity always wins out over modern, digital manipulation—unless the sole goal is to restore and recreate the initial cinemagoing experience. Purity is so important here, and the retention of these moments may have had historic merit, and value beyond measure for future cinephiles—after all, as inaccurate as it may be, the elongated, digital streaming reproduction currently circulating will likely act as the forever cut of the film.
Unfortunately, these days Friedkin’s pathological exaggerations have apparently led to him to believe in demonic possession—leaning into exorcism-related quackery with his Exorcist-tinged 2017 documentary, The Devil and Father Amorth. Pull the other one, Bill, it’s got bells on. What a load of old cobblers. He’s also seemingly retreated on his religious views as he’s aged—as most fearful folks do nearing the grave. I’d prefer to imagine it’s akin to Spielberg, who insisted he believed in aliens in the eighties because it all helps the cause and promotion of the movie, and in turn, the filmmakers’ livelihoods. After all, they’re both as shrewd as they come—but the blind comfort of fraud and mythomania are powerful enemies, even for the most rational thinker.
Friedkin now states the best; most definitive—or complete version, is the extended rerelease. He’s dead right that it’s the most complete; and dead wrong in saying it’s the best. I’d estimate two hours is just about the limit for one note dread—a filmmaker can only stretch the elastic band of anxiety for so long. The extra twelve or so minutes of “The Blah-Blah We’ve Never Blah’d” tips the picture over, as it loses significant momentum and mystery. The 132-minute edition is nothing short of a travesty. The 122-minute original wants no straps; no embellishments—needs no disclaimers, and no safety net. It lets us plummet, and forces us to make sense of the fall.
William Peter Blatty, whose premier preoccupation with—if you can convince people the Devil exists, then you can convince them about God as his rival, largely outweighs his artistic contribution—not to his best-selling novel, but to the motion picture of The Exorcist. He’s more concerned with his dictatorial, religious agenda, which backfired on him hard in ’73 with Friedkin’s deadpan, sobering cut calling into question amongst many moviegoers whether good or evil was ultimately victorious—a proposition Blatty is uncomfortable with to say the very least. “The Awful Version We Should Never Have Been Subjected To” is a desperate man’s attempt to remedy a non-existent problem, way after the fact. No one buys his novel’s insouciant, tough guy priests—they are weak in the film, as they should be. They doubt, they smoke, they cower and shiver in fear—and that’s the way I like it. The over-explanatory explicitness of Blatty’s book brings into question whether the film would’ve been laughed off screen if it had been made with any directorial hands other than the frank and frugal Friedkin’s—as its religious doctrine, biblical brainwash passages, and overt articulation of the meaning of moments were stripped out so cleanly, with surgical focus.
Regan’s bedroom scenes lose all their bewitching vagueness, and become all too conversational. At one pivotal point, in which the Demon is doing his damnedest to convince Karras he’s actually Satan himself, he laughably and benignly suggests the priest think of a number between one and ten. All the murky, beautiful restraint is gone in favour of unending, risible chatter between the rival minds. Most perplexing of all is where Pazuzu begins reeling off geographical trivia like he’s on a satanic episode of QI—confidently stating the answer is “Lake Titicaca”—which, along with “Pazuzu” is a word that should never be uttered in a film such as this. Are you listening John Boreman’s Exorcist II: The Heretic? What the hell is this pointless jibber-jabber doing here, Blatty? Thank the heavens for the editorial capabilities of Friedkin—the dialogue he chose to retain is exacting and curt. The disposable poppycock—abandoned and banished from the pages of the screenplay, renders the picture lean, ambiguous in all the right places, and leaves plenty of room for audiences to psychologically decode it.
I don’t give a hoot what Stephen King thinks about Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining. I couldn’t care less what Peter Benchley makes of Steven Spielberg’s Jaws—it’s immaterial. Author intent holds little bearing on the book itself, let alone the movie. It’s an adaptation—once it’s public, you don’t own the story anymore. Like when Macca told everyone “Martha My Dear” was about his dog—put a sock in it, Paul! As soon as you stick it on the White Album, and it’s in the shops, it doesn’t belong to you, or The Beatles anymore. As soon as it’s released into the world, it means whatever it needs to mean to whoever wants to hear it—or in the case of cinema, watch it. You’re gonna show me something in a theatre that could be potentially life-altering, and then fiddle with it before its home video release? I want to own the art I saw the first time—not someone’s “improved” idea of it—even if it’s the authors’ themselves.
Ellen Burstyn set her heart on playing the actress, and plagued mother of Regan, Christine “Chris” MacNeil, and was persistent in her pursuit, beating sturdy competition from Audrey Hepburn—who would only have taken the role if the picture was shot entirely in Rome, Anne Bancroft, who had a bun in the oven, and the effectively blacklisted “Hanoi Jane” Fonda, who turned it down flat, labelling the film, “capitalist bullshit.” In terms of Burstyn’s pivotal performance, I love the way Chris gets gradually more covered and hidden as the film proceeds—the headscarf, the over-sized jacket with the collar turned up, the dark movie star sunglasses, the gloves—she’s retreating; morphing into a different, forever changed person before our very eyes.
Jason Miller as Father Damien himself still feels astonishingly real to me—partly because I’ve never seen him in anything else. The revealing fact that author, screenwriter, and producer, William Peter Blatty offered to hand his entire earnings on The Exorcist over to director, William Friedkin if he agreed to let him play Karras speaks volumes. Friedkin shot down this gesture immediately, amid dodging bullets from Jack Nicholson and Paul Newman, who both wanted to play the role, and instead plumped for Stacy Keach, who was usurped by the actual lapsed Catholic, and playwright, Jason Miller, to the bewilderment of everyone on the production. How precisely is anyone’s guess, as tales vary—with Friedkin relaying on his revealing, first-rate solo DVD audio commentary, that Miller wanted to play Karras so badly he begged to screen test, but in contradiction—in Kermode’s The Fear of God: 25 Years of ‘The Exorcist’ documentary, it is Friedkin who approaches Miller and asks him to try out after seeing his latest play, which, “reeked of failed Catholicism.” He would later say, “the camera loved him,” and granted him the role. What resulted is one of my favourite screen performances, and perhaps the finest film debut I’ve ever seen. Although Bob is Bob and I wouldn’t change a thing, I’d also have loved to have seen him take a crack at Travis Bickle for Marty’s Taxi Driver three years later. Perhaps it’s because Miller is not a star—he isn’t Robert Redford or Gene Hackman, but I believe him in the part. I accept every word and every expression—he is Karras. Perhaps I was a little slow on the uptake as a teen; perhaps I just wanted to accept, or just loved films enough to suspend my disbelief in order to immerse myself in these fantastical stories, but I believed in The Exorcist. Karras’ mother was never an actress to me. When I watch Miller in The Exorcist, I feel as though I’m eavesdropping—observing real, human behavior, and not a performance. In the same spirit, a combination of unknowns and seasoned professionals in secondary character roles—most notably Lee J. Cobb as Kinderman, round out a grounded group of players.
Linda Blair—much like we saw with ’60s Beatlemania—experienced America go wild, and then blame her for it, resulting in so-called tragic, irreversible effects. Some bonkers believers thought she was actually evil, and felt it necessary to spout spurious, hurtful hokum—the teen even required bodyguards to protect her from the kooks. After all, how we are seen and treated by the world can shape us. The truth is less interesting, but thankfully more pleasant. From what I’ve seen, she’s extremely well-adjusted, and by all accounts a lovely, philanthropic person—focusing her efforts on a pet rescue dog shelter, the Linda Blair Worldheart Foundation.
For me, not even the 1990 comedy, Repossessed could break the spell or diminish The Exorcist‘s eerie effect. In all likelihood, I saw the daft spoof before, and it was subsequently lacking all context, but for the kind of imagery that tends to linger in pop culture potholes after a cinematic explosion makes its monumental, cultural impact—such as rotating head gags, split pea soup puking, and general bedridden green-faced grossness. At a younger age, I had already leaned into Leslie Nielsen’s Naked Gun movies. Here, he puts on a preposterous Irish accent, and acts as a half-arsed narrator who sort of comes and goes throughout. Repossessed even ripped off the Naked Gun one sheet art for its video box—depicting a pricelessly named, “Father Jebediah Mayii,” surfing a king-size crucifix, whilst brandishing a Bible, so it cunningly tricked me at that tender age. Although inferior in almost every way, it does feature a brazenly topless lady. I didn’t yet recognise The Exorcist‘s own, Linda Blair as the demonic matriarch, Nancy (Reagan—geddit?) Aglet, although she’s actually pretty funny, and a really good sport—spewing goo in bed in her full Regan makeup, referencing Pee-wee Herman, and branding priests as, “collar jockeys.” WWF pundits of the day, Jesse “The Body” Ventura, and mean Gene Okerlund even have a third act cameo, and the catchy, earwormy theme song, “Re-re-re-Repossessed!” still jangles around in my brain to this very day.
We arrive at The Exorcist‘s tobacco-tinted lensed, flat cap wearing, gun-toting, priest-punching, irascibly out of control director, William Friedkin. All things considered, is Friedkin purely a movie brat, toy-throwing pram-dweller? Just ask poor casualty of bad Billy—Ellen Burstyn as Chris MacNeil, who was yanked by harness, high off her 41-year-old feet and across Regan’s bedroom into a wall, and onto her coccyx at the behest of the out of control, common senseless director by an equally mad disciple of Friedkin—the overzealous special effects technician, Marcel Vercoutere—injuring her spine permanently, only to be continually filmed whilst crying out in pain. Or ask little Linda Blair, who was flung around like a rag doll in agony whilst the cameras rolled, and when her metal back brace slipped and repeatedly smashed into and fractured her lower spine, left her crying out for, “Billy!”—her director, in floods of tears. Or try Jason Miller as Father Karras, who got direct-hit slimed in the gob against his will by Dick Smith’s gang, and was left genuinely started—anything for a decent take, when heat-packing, prankster crackpot, Friedkin busted a cap to simulate the sudden ringing of a rotary phone—a dimwitted directorial flourish employed famously by John Ford, and then George Stevens, who would employ any methods necessary during production of 1959’s The Diary of Anne Frank. Or perhaps review the finale of the film, in which Friedkin flagellated actual priest, Father William O’Malley as Father Dyer—striking him across the chops to trigger an authentic shaky hand as he administers the last rites to a dying Karras at the foot of the “Hitchcock steps.”
Friedkin, tirelessly in search of score music that felt like, “a cold hand on the back of the neck,” also disposed of two well-regarded composers—Bernard Herrmann (Psycho, Taxi Driver) due to a “working methods” clash, with Herrmann dictating the director should erase the whole Iraq segment, essentially hand the picture over to him, and he’d score the entire thing with a church organ. Friedkin simply said, thanks but no thanks. Secondly sacked was Lalo Schifrin (Cool Hand Luke, Bullitt, Dirty Harry), whose cacophonous, wall-to-wall attempt allegedly drove Billy to bark, “This is Mexican music! I hate Mexican music!” before hoying the reel-to-reel recording across the adjoining street and into a car park—concluding, “That’s where that belongs.” He fired Lalo on the spot, in front of both Schifrin’s wife and agent, and the two never spoke again. If I may play devil’s advocate, perhaps Friedkin simply learned the valuable lesson that sometimes a score isn’t as good as the temp track, and although he kicked off massively, the passion perhaps justified the irresponsibility and rampant mania. All that being said and done, literally everything mentioned above is in the film—on the celluloid, and preserved forever. A handy quote typically attributed to director, Robert Zemeckis is that “Pain is temporary. Film is forever.” As hard as it is to justify Friedkin’s behaviour, when the dust settles on the careers of these actors, these controversial moments will live on in perpetuity. Burstyn, by all accounts would disagree, and if I were her I’m certain I’d feel the exact same way. Certainly, unnecessary risks were taken—which provokes the question, how far should a director go to achieve their vision; their art? Was Billy really a virulent loon, or was he so invested in this piece that he would die for it; slap, injure, maim, for every frame of it? Is this ever justified in the pursuit of collaborative art? After all, he wasn’t slapping himself, was he?
As well as exhibiting potentially criminal negligence on set, conversely, the devil-may-care Friedkin was also an artist adding “grace notes” and magical movie moments like Von Sydow shambling through shafts of light in Iraq as if pacing through a Rembrandt, or the writhing, almost imperceptible—incorrectly thought of as subliminal, Alain Renet-style Eileen Dietz flash frame as the pale-faced Pazuzu appearing momentarily during the exorcism. Friedkin confessed in his informative feature-length documentary chinwag for Shudder—Leap of Faith: William Friedkin on The Exorcist, that film-wise, 1955’s Ordet by Carl Theodor Dreyer was the only influence in terms of cinema. Most of The Exorcist‘s cues originated in art and music. James Ensor—a Belgian painter, certainly had impact, although more so in 1978’s follow-up to Friedkin’s Sorcerer—The Brink’s Job. “The greatest of all the surrealists,” René Magritte’s Empire of Light is evident in the iconic, streetlit arrival of Merrin on Prospect Street, the “moments of truth” captured in Henri Cartier-Bresson’s candid, monochromatic, humanist photographs played a key part, as did View of Delft by Dutch Baroque Period painter, Johannes Vermeer. Any of Caravaggio’s jet-black backgrounds encircling dramatically lit figures, and depicting a strong, emotional, hard edge could be noted. Also, Rembrandt’s trademark hard light on one side of the face, and softer on the other, with a fraction of back light immediately conjures the image of the subway vagrant pleading with Karras to help an old altar boy—however, these self-aggrandising, art-savvy citations may be designed to validate the status of the director himself, and no doubt could be cited in most film lighting setups, but it’s safe to say they’re all present in the film somewhere if we go looking, and choose to see them.
The Intrigue by James EnsorEmpire of Light by René MagritteView of Delft by Johannes VermeerHenri Cartier-BressonHenri Cartier-BressonHenri Cartier-BressonSaint Jerome Writing by CaravaggioSelf-portrait as the Apostle Paul by Rembrandt
Recently, I’ve reassessed what always appeared to be an excisable prologue. Call it teenage naivety, but a neat severing of the at a glance indulgent opening ten minutes, and instead beginning with the gloom of Georgetown always felt like a no-brainer. However, as well as to cushion the shadowy arrival of Merrin in the film’s final act, the scene’s importance lies in its function as a thematic table setter; a solid underpinning. It stabilizes the tone, and sets the scene of an ancient, supernatural mystery and the mythology of what The Exorcist is all about. Two worthy opponents—Pazuzu and Merrin, are inexorably drawn together—the twisted snake phallus, snarling dog fight, and square go stare-down, echo the dusty remnants of the first African face off between the priest and the Mesopotamian demon. Most importantly, as the novel clearly states—it’s a premonition. It’s the innate knowledge that he’s about to face this fiend again in a rematch that will ultimately result in his demise. It’s a conundrum for audiences, both then and now. On paper, it’s traditional narrative suicide—casting arguably our lead protagonist and titular character, Father Lankester Merrin out, until the final act of the picture—yet it’s also thematically resonant, and purely as a tool of character-based foreshadowing, enhances the depth of the tale. It’s so rich in its visuals and thesis that it somehow holds up to scrutiny and deepens the many perceived meanings within the movie.
The more I returned to the picture this time around, the more overpowered I was by the blocking and staging of the prologue—concocted not by the film’s director of photography, Owen Roizman (The French Connection, Network) as with the rest of the picture, but by British cameraman, Billy Williams (Women in Love, Gandhi) alongside Friedkin—who insisted upon including the sequence in the screenplay after Blatty excised it from his first draft adaptation, and also actually shooting it on location in northern Iraq at a real dig. It’s an audacious approach to tone-setting that makes perfect sense to me today, but passed me by like a 108-year-old crone in a rickety carriage for most of my viewings. The milky-eyed stranger, perpetually hammering away is evidently a precursor to some of Regan’s physical alterations to come, and the textured sound design—the rhythmic, pounding, digging, beating, and cobbling with nails and pickaxes is intentionally mirrored in the clattering and banging of the hurtling, robotic-tentacled machinery in the film’s medical sequences.
The Exorcist‘s color timing is incredibly important throughout—notice the way Friedkin turns the black-and-white sun blood red at the climax of the prologue—that’s a conscious, artistic decision. Why he thinks he has the right to arbitrarily alter the rest of the colour palette all these years later is beyond me. The dual pillars of good and evil in ancient battle, either side of a setting sun, with the scarlet desert sky conceding ground to the cool, detached blue of Washington, as we enter the next chapter. Perhaps the point of the prologue is to make us despair; to show how ancient evil is—and to me, quite damningly—to articulate that it will never retreat. Consider the deliberate manner in which Regan’s right hand is raised later on during her hypnosis. It’s clearly reminiscent of the intro’s Pazuzu statue—the right arm is up, and the left is positioned across the body.
Did The Exorcist signal the end of an era, or a new beginning? As with the year one, sci-fi monster spectacle, Alien, or the aforementioned found footage front-runner, The Blair Witch Project, which each heralded the arrival of a new kind of film within a burgeoning genre. Yes, films like them had come before, and as with Alien, almost every beat existed—the plot points had mostly been done, but never quite like these films depicted them. Note the firsts—The Exorcist was the first “horror” to be nominated for Best Picture at the Academy Awards, and remains in that elite club alongside Jaws, The Silence of the Lambs (the only movie to actually win), The Sixth Sense, Black Swan, and Get Out. By the time Burstyn was investigating fluttering sounds in the attic, the technique was somewhat old hat—a played out trick straight out of Hitchcock’s The Birds, made ten years previous, yet still represented precisely where horror resided in people’s minds back in ’73. Friedkin had cracked the code on something new, and that special something was still resonant and impactful enough to cut through the slasher-horror fare of the late ’90s, and remarkably still resounds, even today. The cryptic candle flareup and scuttling demonic activity embodied by the rapping in the attic, ticks a suspense-horror box, but it’s really only there to illustrate a watershed moment, and a changing of the guards.
Even today, the infamous, profane crucifix masturbation scene, or more accurately—the bloody, savage genital mutilation, involving 12-year-old Regan MacNeil, is admirably blasphemous and distasteful, and possesses a shocking, sweary clout beyond what modern cinema usually chucks at us. Preceding this alarming highlight is the subtle, almost imperceptible—yet psychologically effective sound of a grandfather clock just after Kinderman leaves, before McNeil runs upstairs into the chaos of the flying vinyl records in a swirling room vortex. It’s also a scene I originally misread. After my initial viewing, I naively and mistakenly referred to the scene as Regan stabbing herself in the leg, as it was somewhat unclear to me what the possessed girl was actually up to. Furthermore, I’d always read the scene as Regan telling anyone listening—here it’s solely her mother, to “Let Jesus fuck you!” several times over, but in reality it was somehow a more troubling thought. The Demon, now in full force, is inflicting this sexual abuse act upon Regan—speaking these unforgettable words not through her—but directly to her, forcing Regan to give in; to concede defeat, which not only amplifies the horror of the scene, but with this upsetting context, renders it far more disturbing. When sharply followed by the Burke-mirroring head rotation, which although is my least favorite mechanical, practical effect in the picture, when combined with my second favourite makeup stage—Dick Smith’s gangrenous green canker sore, self-inflicted wounds level—the bloody, yellow-toothed but still girlish Regan affecting Burke’s British brogue, may be the scariest image in cinema. It may play a little dated, but the scare is so clearly coloured by character in the storytelling reveal that she is in fact Burke’s murderer—this being her supernatural confession, that it still satisfyingly sends shivers down the spine—and like the ancient clacking of a ghost train that’s run the same rails ragged for decades upon decades, it still jolts and shakes its somewhat unprepared passengers.
Composer, Phil Spector acolyte, and Rolling Stones collaborator, Jack Nitzsche’s (One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest) finger slid around the edge of a wine glass to create a theremin-esque, tone-setting whine. A bee in a jar layered sixteen times with pitch changes, and mixed with real pigs led to slaughter—there may not be a real Devil in the celluloid as Billy Graham once fearfully preached, but there is real death in the workings of the soundtrack. El Topo‘s Gonzalo Gavira—who Friedkin described as, “a Mexican peasant with no shoes,” and his ingenious, on the spot foley sound effect of a credit card-filled, folded leather wallet cracking and clicking to simulate Regan’s possessed head rotating through 360 degrees, is now the stuff of legend. Friedkin took the silences in the film so seriously that occasionally we’re not even listening to a soundless film strip—it’s just the white leader. There’s no sound at all—absolute dead silence.
When you’ve got the gravel-voiced Mercedes McCambridge in restraints—crouched and bound to a chair, necking whiskey, chain-smoking cigarettes, and downing raw eggs, you perhaps don’t require manipulated, bullshit post-production roars. In context though, when you watch the whole piece, it absolutely works—faults and all. Somewhat cryptically, Friedkin wanted the Demon’s voice to sound akin to a Hieronymus Bosch piece, which makes more sense when we take into account the concept of “Legion” with the innumerable bodies in fleshy, sexual repose and the imagined yet perceptible caterwauling, as seen in his Garden of Earthly Delights—especially with its third panel’s illustrations of sin, punishment, and Hell. The Exorcist boasts a mix so densely detailed and layered that even Friedkin confessed to hearing new elements during the digital remastering and rerelease.
The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus BoschThe Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus BoschThe Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch
The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch
I love that it’s such a downer. A shock to the system is always refreshing—to our internal systems as audiences, and to the Hollywood system itself. It’s a tad simplistic to say “the Devil wins,” but by Blatty, Kermode, and company’s own rationale—in spite of the damage to her physically, if the Demon’s true target is not the pure and innocent Regan, and is instead the despairing believers and non-believers being the emotional prey—to make every other soul under that Georgetown roof completely despair—which is precisely what unfurls, then perhaps it’s beyond doubt. Merrin lies dead from an inevitable heart attack—arguably defeated by the Assyrian Demon. Yes, Karras’s actions are heroic in his self-sacrifice to replace Regan as the vessel for Pazuzu, but his death in the process—by, to Catholics, the unholy sin of suicide no less, concedes the game. The Demon presumably lives on elsewhere to fight another day, as with the previous case in Africa decades earlier. The Devil is driven out, but surely lives on—evil is still present in the world when the final credits appear.
Call me a heathen, but I also cherish that The Exorcist spooks the religious. I find the fact that believers fear their own loving God to such an extent that a lowly horror picture such as this can rattle them to their very foundations by turning their own superstitions and dark age faith against them—purely by using art. Besides, as an atheist heretic, I’m not interested in a film where God “wins.” If I’m picking and choosing, I’d sooner the Devil did emerge victorious, as it’s simply more interesting—and preferable to either of those options, I’d rather make up my own mind. Blatty wants his God to win, Friedkin preferred the picture to be ambiguous, and that’s why the theatrical remains the superior cut. It exposes the separateness of humanity—a vein of futility, and it mournfully illustrates how we’re all ultimately on our own. It’s reflective of an ongoing battle of good versus evil within us, and within the entire world. There is a power for good, just as there is a power for evil, and they’re in combat all the time—life is ambiguous, and so is the dark denouement.
For Blatty to quietly remark, “I don’t want them to think the Devil wins,” is just as feeble and frail as the desperate cloying and sycophantic pious ramblings of his text, and Friedkin—an alleged unbeliever at the time, possessed the precise attitude necessary to adapt and adjust it. I always admire the film’s confidence—the brash boldness to take on religion, and allow the Demon an incredible amount of freedom, reign, and power, and ultimately give him the upper hand. The sneering, cackling, and contemptuous mockery exuding from the bedevilled Regan right before Merrin sternly cries, “I cast you out!” only proves the Demon will only leave her body if it chooses to—the priests are altogether helpless, mirroring the tragic truth that Blatty is in fact seeking to hide from both audiences, and himself.
As Billy Friedkin often repeats, “Everybody who sees this film takes from it what they bring to it.” Even the face of Pazuzu, and Blair’s body double for the picture, Eileen Dietz, beautifully and poignantly stated, “We bring upon our own Hell, and our own Heaven.” Friedkin endlessly regales us with his, “I didn’t set out to make a horror film. It’s not a horror film—it’s a story about the mystery of faith” spiel. Blatty would regurgitate the same—that he never intended to frighten the audience. But come on—let’s face it. More than a little horror crept onto the pages, and into the frame. The fact is that Friedkin may not have approached his film of The Exorcist as a by the numbers, hokey Hammer horror—yet somewhat ironically, it’s still a priest staking a vampire of sorts. It’s also a persistent, one note of dread, played dead straight, and captured with documentary realism amidst true, character-driven drama.
A simplistic word like “realistically” betrays the film, as The Exorcist is, at times—like the majority of my favourite films—a phantasmagorical experience. There is undoubtedly an experimental side. Take perhaps what is perhaps my favourite nightmare sequence ever captured—Karras, racked by guilt, dreaming of his deceased mother as she descends the NYC subway stairs, down to her impending fate, juxtaposed with the stopped clock and the falling medallion. Maybe it’s my admiration of Friedkin, and my love for the film, but using “symbiosis” to explain away blatant plot holes is beyond bold. In fact, so staggeringly arrogant is the assumption we will go along with this harebrained theory, I almost admire it. After all, what is the Monolith in Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey? Why is it on Jupiter, and then finally in the white room? Not every filmic image requires a definitive answer. Who knows, perhaps this technique allows the film to be seen through different prisms over time, and ultimately adds to the longevity and rewatchability of The Exorcist.
As I take it, symbiosis is utilised here as the subconscious sharing of images and thoughts—most notably experienced by Merrin and Karras. Father Merrin’s premonitions and experiences inexplicably intrude on Karras’s dream—the warring dogs, the Saint Joseph medal, the stopped clock that only Merrin sees. The medallion is perhaps the most compelling inclusion. As a talisman—much like “Rosebud,” the symbolic sled of Citizen Kane fame, it’s indecipherable and infinitely intriguing. This pendant shows up for bewildering, curious reasons. There’s no way a Saint Joseph’s medal would ever be found at the Iraqi dig. Then, how could that very same necklace appear around the neck of Father Karras? Friedkin was working instinctually, and later confessed outright that he didn’t know what all this business really meant, but also let slip a telling and worthy piece of advice referencing what filmmaker, Fritz Lang once called, “sleepwalking security.” As David Bowie once said, “Never play to the gallery.” Friedkin directly asserts, “You do things that you think are right. Period.” It’s hard to argue when the result of that ethos births a film this formidable. That beautiful ignorance is, I believe, the key to creating art, and the fundamental principle used when crafting The Exorcist.
This film has both the courage and the nouse to ask unanswerable questions, and then trust that it will be provocative enough intellectually to conjure, and then inhabit that wonderful cinematic zone where it’s able to be experienced repeatedly. As Kermode rightly says, it becomes a different movie with each watch because our interpretation of these unfathomable details shifts. It’s all quite illogical, yet it’s never enough of an issue that it damages the picture—it only proves that we are spoon-fed far too much in modern cinema—there’s no room to breathe. The Exorcist is pitch-perfect with its exposition—both voluntarily given, and thoughtfully hidden.
Upon release it was the most successful motion picture in film history, and a sociological phenomenon—it remains a film beyond genre; beyond cinema itself. What the fanatical Friedkin and his cohorts released back on Boxing Day ’73, was something else. The duelling egos of its primary caregivers—a delicious blend of Blatty’s blind faith, and Friedkin’s purist attraction to story, as a director undeterred by deities. The Exorcist is conceivably the most vicious and uncompromising movie ever produced, and a work that preys relentlessly and unapologetically on superstition; the ingrained theological fears of believers, and the inherent, ceaseless ties between horror and religion.
Scarious Artists 