The ‘Burbs (1989)
Join me for, “a week in Jonestown,” with The ‘Burbs—which skews us nicely into the unmistakable realm of a real, childhood filmmaking staple of mine, Joe Dante—director of Gremlins, Gremlins 2: The New Batch, and Innerspace. Here, a slightly peculiar-looking Universal logo morphs, as we track in until we’re directly over a neighbourhood—not dissimilar to my own cul-de-sac as a kid, albeit giant-sized and Americana-fied, complete with spinny sprinklers, a mornin’ cuppa Joe, and a paperboy straight out of the ‘80s computer game. Already, the film’s lofty statements on comfort and country are steadily unfurling. The clinking and clanking of the score accompanies the continuing push-in to a fantastic miniature, as a harpsichord plays, and a basement ignites with light, as we’re introduced to our man of the hour, and hero of the piece—Tom Hanks’ pajama-clad, Ray Peterson. Yes, Mr. Peterson makes fun of hydrocephalus sufferers, and impulsively chucks coffee at kids, but he’s a decent man—he just wants to hang around the house and be lazy.
The zany, whacked-out Dante tone mostly consists of a blend of heightened slapstick, or jet black humour, light moments of clever comedy, along with elaborate action scenes, and horror-inspired surrealism, such as Ray’s freaky ‘burbsmare—featuring cannibals, and a satanic, Idi Amin BBQ, dream sacrifice with a chainsaw. Clearly inspired by vintage animation, Art’s body-shaped hole in the shed roof, is straight out of Roadrunner—fitting, as Dante would go on to make Looney Tunes: Back in Action in 2003. The ‘Burbs‘ use of classic horror tropes and homages, such as The Exorcist, and Leatherface on the TV, the crooked porch swing that’s straight outta The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, or The Evil Dead, owls hoot, ominous clonks resound, and echoes of The Addams Family, and The Munsters are loud and clear, and The Klopek’s interior uses canted framing—the Dutch, to articulate that something’s off, as Ray and Art do their breaking and and entering bit. This isn’t really a shock from the director of Piranha, and The Howling, but what’s magnificent about Dante is his seamless blending of disparate qualities to communicate his unique vision, and retain the levity of the picture. He shepherds this Dante mood with flair and poise, and manages to maintain his distinct voice. It’s enviable—to take material like this, carve out a personal perspective, and never let it overpower the story—just compliment, and flavour it. Dante’s awareness of cinema in general means we feel as if we’re in safe, knowledgeable hands. He’s a filmmaker who has studied movies, and therefore knows when to hit us with the clichés, and when to veer away for maximum surprise, and satisfaction. The spaghetti western reference, where he tracks in on Queenie the dog, says it all, and reminds us exactly where he stands. It’s all for fun—film-literate fun.
The ensemble is a dream. First and foremost, as obvious as it may be to state, one of my absolute favourite actors of all-time is Tom Hanks. His mile-a-minute mind, and exasperation expressed with faux-yelling, an erratic crushing of beer cans, and hysterically yelping like Woody in Toy Story. Hanks emerging from the Klopek’s nightmare inferno house like a half-destroyed T-800 is always hilarious, as are his pitch-perfect, cacophonous, sardine allergy sneezes. Actor and comedian, Rick Ducommun, as Art Weingardner, is no doubt an acquired taste—but in small doses, as seen here, he’s actually excellently cast. Nutty, crotchety veteran war machine, Mr. Rumsfield (Bruce Dern), has the coolest title credit bestowed upon him, and the foxy Wendy Schaal as the scantily-clad, no-tanlined, Mrs. Rumsfield charms as per. Carrie Fisher is more than welcome as Carol Peterson—in a decent, kinda maternal role, as Ray’s put upon wife, sick of his nosiness and unhealthy obsessions with the batty neighbours, which she pairs marvellously with a cool detachment, and simultaneous understanding. Finally, Corey Feldman dials in one of his better performances as Ricky—a chirpy, chipper, stoner dude, who relishes in the ensuing suburban drama, loves his street, and boasts it’s better than television.
The Klopeks represent everyone we ever wondered about. Have you ever hypothesised about someone’s nocturnal habits? Are they unusual, or are we? Are we the lunatics? There’s a profound statement in there—it just takes one nosy parker to start the fire of paranoia, then it spreads via fear. Fear of foreigners, and new residents in the cul-de-sac, and a crippling fear of differences, and standing out in any way at all. Then finally, just when you thought it was safe, The ‘Burbs’ death rattle wrap-up ultimately echoes Kurt Cobain—via Catch-22’s rich sentiment of, “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not after you.”
Scarious Artists 